


One Fell Swoop

by trebleclefable



Series: his light remains [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Dialogue, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Manipulation, Familial Love, Found Family, Friendship/Love, Gen, Gray Jedi Revan, Intrigue, Manipulation, Moral Ambiguity, Morally Ambiguous Character, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Second Person, Platonic Relationships, Revan Remembers, Revan Said Fuck The Jedi Order And The Sith, Rewriting canon scenes, Tags to be added or changed, This may end up turning into a series rather than a coherent narrative tbh, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27169253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trebleclefable/pseuds/trebleclefable
Summary: Aboard the Leviathan, Saul Karath jumps at the opportunity to make the grand announcement and tear the Jedi Order's carefully crafted mask off this farce. "Compassion simply isn't in your nature, is it, Lord Revan?"Compassion IS in your nature - but surrender is not. In just a few moments, the Ebon Hawk's capture entirely derails your plans. But that is hardly a problem; you're Revan, after all: Darth Revan, Supreme Commander of the Republic, famed Jedi Knight and ruthless Lord of the Sith, and you thrive best in the midst of strife. After all, you have your sharp wit and supernatural patience, and this frantic dance with intrigue and fate is what you love most.It will take more than catastrophe to keep you from your ambitions. You see opportunity in chaos and you seize upon it.Revision of the KOTOR storyline to allow a Gray ending, with Revan successfully conquering the Republic but not formally installing a Sith Empire. Those who know Revan reflect on him and the vast changes he's wrought.
Relationships: Alek | Darth Malak & Revan, Implied Canderous/Revan
Series: his light remains [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2078418
Comments: 33
Kudos: 38





	1. Saul Karath

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: AU where Revan took notes from Julius and Augustus Caesar on how and how not to properly conquer a republic (without getting murdered by the Senate). Revan does not become formally Sith-aligned in this fic, but he does do some incredibly shady things. 
> 
> WILDLY canon unfriendly - I know Legends is already non-canon, but I made sure to shoot it several more times just in case. Initial changes include: Revan recovering his memory pre-Leviathan, Saul Karath revealing Revan's identity, Bastila isn't captured and subsequently turned by Malak...
> 
> Happy bday, Friend Who Will Not Be Named!

It’s too good to be true. It’s too good to be true. You should know better, but you want it so, so badly. Want to believe it. For it to true that not only do you have the Republic's two most prized combatants of the war in your ship’s detention cells, not only that Lord Revan himself is alive and helpless at your mercy, but that the Jedi scavenged him from the wreckage of his flagship and crafted him a new, makeshift personality and memory that suited their needs. That he can’t remember you, his new consciousness too firmly ingrained. _That he doesn’t even know who he is._

You have ended the civil war, neutralized the Jedi Order, and secured Lord Malak’s supremacy of the Sith in one fell swoop. 

It will take less than twenty minutes for you to realize - and pay for - your mistake.

But for now, in the present moment, you are convinced that it is indeed true. “The Dark Lord will no doubt torture you for information and for his own twisted pleasure,” you assert, all but preening. “Eventually you will tell him everything. The Sith can be very persuasive.” 

And you know the veracity of your claims because, after hundreds of times, you’ve never seen your lord and master fail an interrogation. And, after all, it was _Revan_ who taught Malak in the first place, and who pioneered many of the Sith’s most effective techniques. 

He stares at you now, seemingly impassive. In the cell to the immediate right, Carth Onasi openly seethes, his breath coming ragged and heavy from the sheer weight of betrayal and hatred. On the left-most cell, Bastila Shan shivers in her undergarments, likely more from fear than chill, her eyes darting away from your gaze. 

But Revan, Lord Revan just stares at you. No expression, no sign of recognition, hatred, or fear. He looks about the same as you remember; even his dark, muted Jedi robes - before he was stripped of them - are of the sort he preferred back during the Mandalorian War. His thick, black hair is possibly a bit longer, though you’re accustomed to seeing it neatly slicked back, never quite as tousled as it is now. Everything else is the same. His brows, thick and defined, are about the only noticeable feature about him; his jaw is somewhat round and his cheekbones set a bit low, the smattering of freckles across his face barely visible against dark bronze skin. The bright blinking lights of the cells’ display screens cast an eerie cyan-blue glow on his face, making his gray eyes glitter like kyber crystal. 

The Jedi really didn’t surgically change him at all? Didn’t even make an attempt at a disguise? Surely a mistake on their part. Certainly he would have likely appreciated a few extra inches of height at least. No matter. He is the same, physically if not mentally, and you can hardly wait to use his own torture techniques against him. When you speak, it is with open glee. “However, Lord Malak is in another sector. It may be some time before he arrives, so I suppose I will have to fill in for him until then.” 

You turn toward your assistant and, with a nonchalance that can’t quite belie your excitement, give the order to commence what you know will be some of the worst pain anyone can experience. “Activate the torture fields.”

The quiet click of the switch is the sole warning before the cells illuminate blindly bright and roar with electricity. White sparks fly, showering and stinging tender human skin and the muscle and tissue below it; your prisoners seize and twitch, their movements almost robotic as the currents play havoc with their nerves, all but setting their minds and bodies alight with agony. You _relish_ it.

Carth and Bastila scream loudest, drowning out Revan entirely, though he shudders and shakes worse than they do. That is some consolation. You’ll hear him scream by the end of this, you’re sure.

You motion to your lieutenant to stop. “Enough! I don't want them to pass out before I question them. Malak will appreciate any information I can give him when he arrives.”

It takes a few moments, but Carth manages to compose himself enough to speak, visibly gritting his teeth as he does. “Don't waste your breath, Saul! We won't answer any of your questions.”

You wouldn’t care even if that were the case. “I’m sure you won’t. _However_ ,” you add, grinning wickedly, and indicate to Revan with a nod, “we both know your friend's loyalties have proven in the past to be somewhat... flexible.” The jab may not make much sense without his memory of the events in question, but you just can’t help it. 

Revan remains silent, refusing to rise the bait, and stares you down dauntlessly. You can _almost_ admire his courage, but for now you must punish him for it. At your command, your lieutenant activates the electric field again, and this time Revan _does_ scream, raw and desperate, his voice ricocheting off the ship’s thick walls. Surely his companions in the other detention rooms can hear. Distantly, you wonder if you can recall a time you’d heard him scream like that during the Mandalorian War; never, you think, at least not that you know of.

After a full fifteen-second cycle - horrifically long, when you're the one enduring it - the current shuts off, and Revan all but drops to his knees on the cell floor, breathing raggedly. Faint smoke curls off his body. Is that a golden glow in his eyes? You hope so.

Still, the brief agony isn’t enough to make Revan break. Somehow, he even pulls himself back to his feet. Not that that’s too surprising, given who he is, but the long erosion of his will has begun, and it offers you the opportunity to manufacture some suspicion and strife between him and his companions anyway. 

”It is time to put your loyalty to the test,” you declare, still confident in your methods. Well, _Revan’s_ methods, though admittedly you have tweaked them somewhat; Revan always preferred keeping actual physical pain as an auxiliary to emotional manipulation. You, however, happen to like it the other way ‘round. 

“I doubt torturing you will gain me your true cooperation. Your will is too strong to be broken that way. However, even the strongest of heroes has trouble watching those they care about suffering.” Or, rather, his friends will certainly care should he allow them to endure the torture; even if he remains quiet, you’ll use his continued refusal to talk to drive a wedge between them, and wear them down come their turn to be questioned.

“The interrogation will begin now,” you warn. “Each time you refuse to answer or give me a false answer, Carth and Bastila will suffer.” Since you aren’t sure which of them he prefers more, you settle for covering your bases. And, truth be told, you’re really enjoying the sight of pain as it twists Carth’s features.

“Now, on what planet is the Jedi Academy at which you were trained?”

Still Revan says nothing. 

“Very well,” you smile pleasantly, though stiffly, your words barely audible beneath Carth and Bastila’s pain. “I hope you are enjoying the price of your resistance.” You certainly are.

“This first question was a test. Obviously Malak knew the Academy was on Dantooine, and it has since been destroyed by our fleet! Dantooine is an empty graveyard now. Nothing remains but a smoking ruin and the charred remains of your former Masters!” Revan and Malak grew up on Dantooine. It is - was - his childhood home. Surely, even with the new identity and lack of memory, _surely_ his attachment to the planet is deep enough to evoke some response.

And, to your immense gratification, you get exactly that. It’s brief, but it appears all the same: a minor upward turn in his brows, a minor downward curve in his lips, his mouth open just barely as if to exclaim shock or upset. Even his eyes shine a little, and not from the terminal screens. But it is subdued, and he composes himself again far too quickly for your liking.

What exactly is he holding out for? Perhaps he just needs a little reminding. 

“A brave front, but your feigned indifference does not fool me,” you lie. “Your masters are eradicated, along with any hope of someone rescuing you! Now, tell me your mission. How were the Jedi planning on using you to stop Lord Malak and our Sith armada?”

No answer - stubborn wretch. His empty silence drags on a moment, but then is filled by the crackling hum of electricity and deafening agony. They even beg for mercy not even halfway through the cycle before it completes. The satisfaction it brings takes the worst of the edge off your temper, but you really are running out of patience.

You motion for the device to stay on - and on, and on, pumping fragile human bodies full of pain until the risk of killing them is too high. After all, there is only so much you can torture a human being before inevitable death - Bastila with her Jedi abilities can survive longer than Carth, but barely - and you know when your bluff is called, and end the ordeal. The oh-so stalwart Republic heroes collapse in their cells, whimpering and shaking and fussing as terribly as any other sniveling lowlife. It seems neither rank nor the fiercest patriotism can buy fortitude after all. 

This is hardly useful to you. Revan seems entirely willing to let them die - maybe he never cared in the first place - or he knows that Malak has not given you permission to kill them. Still, they will be little help in case of an escape attempt, battered and embittered as they are. 

You sigh, feigning nonchalance as you lean an arm against the control panel. You really ought to leave the honor to Lord Malak, but, like any true Sith, your passions get the best of you. "I suppose I should have known you'd have so little empathy for your so-called friends. No matter how hard the Jedi tried to make it otherwise, it's simply not in your nature to bend to compassion, is it, Lord Revan?"

There is a moment of silence; stunned silence, from Carth, horrified from Bastila, expectant from you. Indifference from Revan. He does little more than quirk a brow, though in the ends of his lips there is the hint of what you suspect may be a goddamn _smile_. 

Now _you’re_ the one gritting your teeth, clenching your fists till they turn white. Stars above, is the man simply not human? Ah, surely he just doesn’t understand or believe you. Carth certainly doesn’t, so you turn to him first.

“You didn’t know, did you? You didn’t know that the Jedi took the Republic’s worst enemy and reprogrammed him to be their pawn,” you leer. “Oh, but surely you suspected something was wrong, Carth. Nothing you could name or point to, perhaps, but all the same you knew something was _off_ about your talented new friend.”

Realization dawns on his face, slow but sure as sunrise, and finally you feel the tension drop away from your shoulders. Your manipulations may not work on Revan - well, whoever Revan believes he is - but Carth succumbs quite prettily. Though, in fairness to you, you are being entirely honest; it just so happens in this instance that the truth serves you. It serves you so well, you’re almost surprised it isn’t a lie. That it’s not too good to be real.

“That can’t be true. It _can’t_ be,” Carth whispers, but the pain written in the lines of his face give him away. He knows.

Bastila does too. He looks to her pleadingly, searching for reassurance - and she gives him none. “Carth, it’s not what you think. We had no other choice! Please, you don’t understand!”

Carth practically roars his response. “Then make me understand! You knew! You and the whole damn Jedi Council. You knew the whole time!”

“Carth, please, he’s trying to divide us! Can’t you see?” She’s correct, but it won’t help her. It’s not like you’re lying, after all. You marvel at how her voice is so pitiful and pleading, raw from desperation and screaming both. 

And then something occurs to all three of you at once - you, Carth, and Bastila swivel your heads and attention solely toward Revan, where he stands defiant and unfazed.

Your smirk has begun to turn the muscles in your mouth sore. “You don’t seem to believe me. Perhaps the Jedi did a better job than I expected.”

“Rather the opposite,” he snaps - his first words since he arrived. You’d quite forgotten how cold his voice can be. “How can you all take me for such an idiot? I know damn well who I am.”

If Bastila looked distraught before, she looks utterly lost now. Her bottom lip trembles and for a moment you expect to see her actually cry. “How? How long did you know?”

Now she’s on the receiving end of Revan’s glare, and she wilts. Admittedly, it is considerably more venomous now than it was toward you. “Fuck you, that’s how.”

You give an abrupt bark of laughter. So childish and petty! You’d quite forgotten that about him, too. “Well! At least you will be able to greet Lord Malak properly. No doubt you’ve missed him.”

Revan _snarls_ at you, literally baring his teeth, and it takes some effort not to cackle in delight at your success.

“Now, now, Lord Revan, there’s no need for that. We’ve surely missed you.” You don’t bother concealing the mockery in your tone. “Just take a deep breath and calm down.”

As you speak, you turn to your lieutenant and nod, gesturing for him to increase the voltage. And that’s all it takes. The generator sparks to life, the harsh white glow blinding you, and - 

And - 

There is no scream. At least, not from him. Now you will pay for your mistake.

You watch, barely comprehending, as Revan slowly and deliberately, _unflinchingly_ , twists then extends his arms so that his fingers are pointing toward you. This can’t be. The cell's activation lights cast Revan in odd, twitching, disfigured shadows, so that he seems more monster than man. The high-voltage electric discharges that ought to have put him unconscious do not touch him. Instead, the currents curve around his body in a way you _know_ portends death. This can’t be. It's impossible.

His Force lightning shatters the holding cell and strikes you squarely in the chest. 


	2. Canderous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, Revan is wildly Over PoweredTM in this, and I justify it by pointing to all the crazy shit Vader’s been doing in canon recently. If Vader can turn every scene he’s in into a horror show, then Revan can, too. 
> 
> Transperisteel: It's legit just glass but for some reason SW can't call it glass.  
> Durasteel: A kind of metal used in construction.

You aren’t the stealthy sort, and you’re certainly not quiet little Mission, but thankfully the Sith are preoccupied enough that they don’t realize that you’re there. Good thing, too; there’s no cover here, where you’re crouched behind the corner, and you’re clearly visible from sides angles except from the center brig chamber and the aft detention room just beyond it. Once you take that first step into the central chamber, the computer terminal will be the only thing between you and the two Sith torturing Carth, Bastila, and Senna. And even though you’d prefer to take them head on rather than sneak up from behind, you aren’t stupid enough to give the officer a chance to activate the alarms, so sneaking it is. You step cautiously into the terminal chamber, readying the blaster pistol you’d earlier appropriated from a patrol guard. 

You set your eye on the officer first. His full attention is on his prisoners and his seemingly futile attempts to make them talk. The perfect opportunity presents itself as the officer casually leans an arm against the control panel, standing close enough to the other Sith that hopefully you can take them both out in one volley -

The officer’s proud voice rings out then, as clear and certain as a call to arms. “No matter how hard the Jedi tried to make it otherwise, it's simply not in your nature to bend to compassion, is it, Lord Revan?”

There is only silence.

 _Take the shot!_ your instinct demands. _What the fuck?_ your rational mind asks, much more loudly. You'll never admit it, but bewilderment keeps you rooted to the spot, your trigger finger still.

 _Lord Revan_.

Once the moment passes, your first instinct is to look around, as if you could have simply missed one of the most famous and infamous masks in recent memory - but unfortunately, you can't sit and listen for an explanation, if there even is one; you’ve missed your first opportunity, and now you _must_ take the next, so you dart forward - keeping your steps deliberate and painfully slow - to press yourself against the corner of the detention room. By then, the officer has moved from the control panel, striding to stand in the middle between the three cells, and you're considering just shooting him and trusting your reflexes to be faster than the Sith trooper's when suddenly it doesn't matter at all.

"Now, now, Lord Revan, there’s no need for that. We’ve surely missed you. Just take a deep breath and calm down."

The officer turns toward his lieutenant to renew the torture, and he _has_ to see you then, no way he _can’t_ notice you crouching just beyond the door, but it’s too late anyway. The hum of electricity and the smell of ozone already fill the air, and suddenly lightning strikes.

The arc hits the officer first, lifting him off his feet and bodily flinging him into the air, and in the same moment leaps to the Sith soldier at the control panel. The cell farthest from you all but explodes, a piece of transperisteel whizzing just over your head - you feel the wind graze your hair and hear the whistle-scream of an object in high velocity - and you squeeze your blaster’s trigger. The laser blast knocks the Sith trooper in the shoulder, sending him to the floor in a heap, and through the corner of your eye watch Saul Karath collide with the center chamber’s terminal, and in this chaos suddenly a great many things suddenly make sense to you.

The man you have known up till now as Senna Aiza steps shakily out of the shattered cell, wincing as shards of transperisteel cut into his bare feet. He notices you as he glances up, and his eyes are an intense, steely gray.

 _It’s simply not in your nature to bend to compassion, is it, Lord Revan_?

Though you’ve said nothing, Carth is not the only one among the crew to think the Jedi Council have ulterior motives. As capable as Bastila and ‘Senna’ have proven themselves to be, they cannot reach the Star Forge, much less _defeat Malak and win the whole damn war_ , on their own or even with the rest of the bizarre crew they’d collected. The Jedi have to know that. Neither a single one of you on this mission, nor all of you combined, can achieve the goal the Jedi have trusted you with.

_But Revan can._

Belated realization brings awe and revulsion both. Till now, you've associated Senna's appearance with a trustworthy comrade and good company, but nothing near so much as... Your eyes open wide and you must re-examine the man you though you knew, reconcile him with the single greatest foe the Mando’ade have ever faced - he’s shorter and a bit plainer than you expected, but he has that legendary grace and composure - and your lip curls at the thought of what it would take to break into that skull and re-wire that formidable mind, how abominable the Force can be in the wrong hands -

“Hey, Canderous,” Revan says, _the_ _Revan_ says, his eyelids half-hooded and his voice far too blasé. “You’re a bit earlier than we expected.”

You nod, completely at a loss for words. He strides to the center terminal, flecks of blood smearing on the floor in his wake, and hefts Karath’s body off the side. It hits the tile with a solid _thump_ , and you hear Carth’s intake of breath from behind. The terminal beeps in response to whatever commands Revan inputs, and at once the detention doors and cells slide open.

“You did it!” Mission calls, excitedly hopping out from her cell, but pulls up short when she notices the atmosphere - the body next to the terminal, the shock on your face, Bastila and Carth still crouching in their open cells, the vicious electrical burns on Revan’s dark skin. “We heard screaming, but… did something go wrong?”

You jerk your head in a ‘no,’ but things hadn’t really gone _right_ , either, so you let someone else speak. What are you even supposed to say, with Darth Revan standing less than a meter away? You haven't processed that enough yet to explain it, so you settle for a simple, "We're all still alive."

Juhani narrows her eyes at you, as if she could decipher the meaning of your words and the situation if she only looked hard enough. "But... _something_ happened?" she hazards.

"Yeah," you agree, glancing back at - _fuck_ , is General Revan really not even 170 centimeters tall? Is his jaw really that round? Is this man - the same man you met in a dingy Taris cantina -really Revan? Maybe it's a mistake.

You know it isn't. But you don't know how or why.

It's Carth who broaches the subject further, of course, once he and Bastila are able to stagger close enough. “Well?” he demands. “Do you wanna tell them, or should I?”

“Right now we have more important concerns,” Bastila objects, exhaustion obvious in her voice, and you allow her to lean her weight against you for support. The torture took a toll on her, evidently, and somehow she seems even smaller than usual if that were possible. “We need to get moving. I can feel the darkness of Malak's presence approaching, and I don't want to be here when he arrives. None of us is a match for the Sith Lord.”

Even _you_ question the wisdom of that statement, and Carth barks out an incredulous laugh. “You can’t be serious! Don’t you think we should handle the Sith Lord we have here first?”

An odd moment of silence falls on the rest of the crew, and Bastila is so still and small against you that you can actually feel her frantic heartbeat. But, no - Juhani and Zaalbar just frown in confusion, clearly waiting for clarification or explanation, and Mission casts about for the Sith Lord in question exactly as you had done, ironically looking everywhere but at Revan. No one really reacts - it doesn't make any sense without context. It doesn't make sense even _with_ context.

Unconcerned, Revan stands up from where he'd been crouching at Karath's side, presumably rifling through his pockets. You glimpse the flash of a keycard between his fingers. "You don't need to handle me, nor can you should you try. We've wasted enough time; you can tell them on the way, I don't care, but we need to get our equipment."

"Um, what?" Mission asks, eloquently. You can't blame her - that's about how you're still feeling, too. "Is this some kind of joke?"

Carth clenches a fist over an electrical burn - one of many - on his bicep and shakes himself, as if to clear his head; the movement unintentionally wafts the smell of burnt clothes and flesh through the air. "No, it's no joke. It's _him_ ,” he seethes, pointing to the Jedi in question. 

“It’s me,” Revan agrees. “Really, we need to go.”

“He’s not who we thought he was. He’s _Darth Revan_.”

“I am. Look, we’ve wasted too much time already, so _do this on the way._ “

Still Carth persists. “The Jedi Council captured Revan and erased his mind, programming in a new identity. Saul Karath told us, and Bastila confirmed it! He didn’t even try to deny it!"

“Excuse me! Walk and talk, please!” Revan calls, waving a hand impatiently as he turns on his heel to make his way toward the entry. “The equipment storage should be over here.”

You hasten after him, slipping an arm under Bastila to support her weight, half carrying her lest she keel over. Perhaps he’d be more imperious if he hadn’t been stripped to his skivvies, but nonetheless everyone follows without question. It’s odd -- or, it’s odd that it _isn’t_ odd. Revan speaks and acts with the natural authority of someone well-accustomed to being obeyed, and it’s a side you haven’t seen much of from him yet; since Taris, he’s generally allowed the role of leader to fall on Bastila due to her rank. But now the game is up, apparently, and the real work has begun. You feel a little thrill in your chest, as finally, _finally_ the reality of the situation and facts settle and fit together in your mind. This is _Revan_. This is _Supreme Commander of the Republic_ Revan, _Lord of the Sith_ Darth Revan, expecting you to follow him up against an entire dreadnought of Sith - and you are ecstatic and honored both at the prospect. Blood roars in your ears, and the prospect that you will very likely die is hair-raising in a way easily rivaling that of dropping from orbit into an active war zone.

Unsurprisingly, you seem to be the only one so enthusiastic.

“You’re Revan? You’re _Darth Revan? You're_ Darth Revan?” Mission reiterates, once her mind has caught up with her, as if by saying it repeatedly with different emphasis she could make more sense of it. “This is... this is big. Do you... do you remember anything about being the Dark Lord?”

“Of course I do.” Revan takes your group down the corridor and through a pair of blast doors to the equipment room, where you lower Bastila onto a bench against the wall. Indicating his head at her, he adds, “The secret’s out now, Bastila, thanks to Saul Karath, and I suspect he told more Sith than just Malak. I’m afraid you’ve failed your assignment.” 

Bastila practically deflates, dejection leaving her so small that for a moment you’re almost concerned she may vanish. You retrieve her robes from a locker and pass them to her, hoping that she’ll look less fragile with clothes on. “So I have,” she concedes, slipping her feet and legs into the beige fabric. “I suppose the odds of success were a million to one, anyway.” 

“Worse.”

Mission pauses in the middle of yanking her high boots on, and holds up an imploring hand. “Wait, wait. If we’re looking for the Star Forge, and he’s Revan but the Jedi thought he forgot he's Revan, and Bastila’s assignment was to keep him from remembering - why? I don’t understand. How does this make sense? How did this even _happen?_ ”

“Exceedingly poor decision making, courtesy of the Jedi Council,” Revan deadpans, now dressed and inspecting his lightsabers. “I’m not sure exactly why or how it happened, myself; I remember the skirmish and the Jedi boarding my flagship, and then I was a Republic recruit named Senna Aiza, stationed on the _Endar Spire_ with Carth. There’s a year between the two that I can’t account for, so you’ll have to direct your questions to Bastila.”

For her part, Bastila very much looks like she’d rather take her chances fighting Malak than answer any of these questions. Still, she rolls her shoulders and straightens her back as if bracing for a fight - which you concede is very possible, given Carth’s venomous glowering. “I was part of the team sent to capture Revan - to capture you,” she corrects, turning to the confirmed Sith Lord. “When Malak fired on the ship, you were so badly injured we thought you dead. Your mind was destroyed, but I used the Force to preserve the flicker of life in your body, forming a Force Bond in the process. I brought you to the Jedi Council. They were the ones who healed your damaged mind.”

“ _Healed_ ,” Revan scoffs.

Probably wisely, she refuses to take the bait. “I wanted to tell you, but the Council forbade it. They - “

You realize where this is going and finish for her. “Needed him to lead you to the Star Maps, _without_ him knowing he was actually an enemy.” Well, that explains all the nonsense about Force visions: they aren’t visions at all, just memories. Leave it to the Jedi to use ‘the mysteries of the Force’ to hide their own agendas.

Revan nods and, now with the crew geared up, gestures to the doors. “Everyone will have to make due with the basic facts for now. We can talk more once we’re out of danger. But first we need to get to the bridge.” 

Jolee throws him a double take. “You _do_ mean the hangar?”

“The _bridge_. We can waste more time chasing after the last Star Map, _or_ we can take the Star Forge’s coordinates from the _Leviathan’s_ database and fly directly to it.”

“You want - “ Jolee turns from him in disbelief, as if he were a lost cause already. To you and the others, he says, “he actually wants us to hijack this ship.”

You don’t even hesitate. “Count me in. This will make stealing the _Ebon Hawk_ from Davik look like child’s play.” If the glory alone weren’t worth it, Revan’s brief, beaming grin certainly is.

Carth scoffs, not unreasonably. “And how can we know we can trust you?” he demands. 

In other circumstances, the incredulous, insulted look Revan gives him could have been amusing. “Maybe because I’d like to live, too, and Malak has demonstrated that that’s contrary to his plans?"

Carth keeps on glowering, and for a moment he looks as if he might object again, but seems to think better of it. “ _Fine_. And what do you suggest about the hundreds of Sith on board who might take issue?”

Revan evenly meets his gaze. “They’ll capitulate or die.”

You don't doubt it.

Revan proves his words twice over. He leads the charge against corridors full of armored opponents and Dark Jedi, and it is in the middle of battle that you see him for what he really is: a legendary Jedi and Sith both, somehow serene and hateful in equal measure. Truthfully, you find it - and him - nothing less than gorgeous.

The fight to the bridge is less a battle and more a slaughter; for the first time since you joined this crew, you feel your presence is entirely superfluous. Having finally abandoned the Padawan act, Revan evidently feels free to unleash the skill he must have been holding back and, _fuck_ , it’s such a beautiful sight. He sweeps across the blood-soaked corridors like some the destroyer god himself, cutting lives short and bodies in half with such grace you never knew could be possible. _This_ must have been how he defeated Mandalore; his footing is quick and clean, and the way he throws and pivots his weight into his attacks - it’s all far too brutal and precise to be called ‘dancing,’ but too nimble and fluid to be anything else. There’s a little thrill in your blood of instinctive revulsion and excitement at the familiar hum of his twin lightsabers, the brilliant light of their afterimages, and the shocked screams and dying gasps of the Sith troopers. As your group crosses through the elevator corridor, Revan grabs hold of the hilt on some poor Sith bastard’s double-bladed sword, using his momentum to pull the Sith forward and sword free, and his main hand to swing in an arc through the Sith's neck - for a moment you think he may just discard the double-bladed sword, but faster than you can see, he launches it through the air like a javelin, and it sails a good many feet further than it physically ought to before impaling through a heavy trooper’s middle. 

_Beautiful_. Absolutely beautiful.

Revan’s competence in melee combat alone is probably enough to cow the _Leviathan’s_ entire crew - granted, the width of the ship’s corridors creates a bottleneck preventing the Sith from simply swarming you all, compelling them to practically line up for Revan to kill - but his Force powers are something else entirely. You still don’t understand all this Force talk, Light Side this or Dark Side that, which Jedi powers are acceptable and which aren’t. But you _do_ understand _power_ , and there is no denying that Revan is made of it. You watch in awe as Revan throws bolts of lightning, paralyzes enemies, throws the enemies themselves, or simply rips their blasters out of their hands. He even uses the Force to rip the blast doors from their hinges, slamming them against a few unwitting Sith troopers till they’re crushed against the wall, and you better understand the fates that befell Mandalore and the Mando’ade.

Jolee lets out a low whistle, barely pausing to crush a nearby enemy droid via the Force as he does. By contrast, Mission visibly winces, whether at violence of it or the resulting deafening crash you aren’t sure. Juhani’s face is stony, and the misery in Bastila’s expression has hardly lessened. 

“Bastila?” Mission says, ducking out of your way as you set the Jedi on her wobbling feet and hoist your repeating blaster, picking off some combatants smart enough to remain outside Revan’s immediate range and focus. “I hope you were exaggerating when you said none of us were a match for Malak? Because I don’t think he needs our help.”

Another Dark Jedi falls, her midsection utterly, cleanly bisected, and you watch with fascinated curiosity as her heavier top half hits the floor before her legs can remember to collapse. Without missing a beat, Revan steps carefully around their gore and strikes down the next person foolish enough to rush him. 

Bastila grimaces and doesn’t answer.

Resistance grows increasingly thin as your group traverses the command deck; more and more Sith begin to throw down their weapons or outright flee than to fight head on. _Capitulate or die_. Despite this, eventually you find yourself - along with Jolee, Juhani, Zaalbar, and the droids - directly fighting more than you were before. Revan slows his pace, occasionally even lagging behind, breathing heavily and seemingly grateful for the respite. 

“I imagine the escape pods have been launched by now,” he ventures, wiping the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. “Meaning the remaining crew will be trapped on the ship with us, so we’ll have to deal with them. Likely they’re already sufficiently cowed enough to surrender, but we’ll need to disarm them before Malak has the chance to arrive with reinforcements.”

Surprisingly - or not, considering the carnage Revan’s wrought - there’s no snideness or malice in Carth’s voice when he asks, “And what then? Malak may be close enough to chase us into hyperspace and to the Star Forge, nevermind that his armada must be waiting for us there. He has to know that that’s where we’re going, and it's not like we can slip away in a ship like this.”

“It’s not as if we weren’t going to have that exact problem anyway,” you interject. “What was our plan going to be then?”

Revan waves over Zaalbar, and you take his place in front as the Wookiee carefully sweeps Bastila into his arms. She’s still trembling and unsteady, and Carth is little better - either Revan must have healed himself to be in such better shape, or the other two suffered more of Karath’s sadism than he did. Either way, Revan may be able to subdue the crew of the _Leviathan_ , but you don’t expect him to pull off the feat for every ship in the Sith armada. 

Carth sighs deeply, his usual exasperation replaced by genuine exhaustion. He pauses for a moment as you fire on an enemy ahead, then speaks. “We were going to contact Admiral Dodonna and send her the Star Forge’s coordinates as soon as we found them. Then we would set up an ambush and the Republic fleet would destroy the Forge. But depending on how close Malak is, we may not have the time to scramble the fleet now.”

It occurs to you that Revan may very well not want the Star Forge destroyed, and that this conundrum may be entirely intentional. You don’t know Revan - you don’t know what he wants or if his help to the Republic is genuine, but you don’t really care. You’ll follow him regardless of where he leads.

"We'll know how close Malak is in a moment," Revan reassures, indicating to the blast doors at the end of the corridor up ahead. "And that will determine our next course of action."

Carth spares him a weary look. "You've already decided our next course of action, haven't you?"

The faint smile on Revan's lips does little to suggest otherwise.

The blast doors to the bridge are locked, of course, and you step back expectantly. Given their vital importance to the defense of the ship, the bridge corridor’s doors are significantly more fortified and secure than that of anywhere else in the ship. Even T3-M4 will likely be unable to bypass the code, but it quickly becomes clear that Revan does not expect the droid to try. 

“Excuse me, Zaalbar,” Revan beckons, all civility and poise. “I need you to lower yourself a bit - yes, good, like that. I don’t want to risk accidentally hitting you.”

Zaalbar is at least over half a meter taller than Revan, so you aren’t sure why he would need to duck until Revan turns not toward the bridge, but back to the way you came - specifically, to the pair of thinner blast doors you all had walked passed. _Those_ doors he’s able to rend from the wall, and you watch with a bizarre sense of amusement as Revan, slowly while levitating it in midair, bends and packs the door into a solid, nearly rectangular mass of reinforced durasteel resembling something like a battering ram. 

“Oh,” Mission breathes, “you can’t possibly be - “

But he is, and he does. The impromptu battering ram slams once, twice, then straight through the bridge’s blast doors, shaking the entire ship with the force of impact and sending debris every which way. Once your ears stop ringing, you hear the terrified shouts of the few Sith personnel barricaded inside, and as the dust clears you see them already kneeling on the bridge floor, hands behind their heads.

“We surrender!” an officer calls, his body trembling worse than a high-powered vibroblade. “We surrender, Lord Revan!” He bites off the last few words, but you know what he means to say, anyway. You’ve heard something similar once years ago as Republic soldiers closed in on the surviving, humiliated Mando’ade, the Republic's battered and bloodied commander holding high a familiar, golden mask: _Have mercy, Commander Revan. All hail Commander Revan._

With surprising care, Revan sets down his battering ram and even deactivates his lightsabers. “We accept your surrender,” he promises. “Now line up against the wall.”

You take in a quick breath, having seen this scene before. _All hail Lord Revan._


	3. Zaalbar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter. Take everything Revan says pre-Leviathan with a grain of salt because probably he's lying or sugarcoating.
> 
> Also, I'd like to submit a formal apology for accidentally making Zaalbar even more similar to Chewbacca.

Anchorhead, Tatooine, Arkanis sector, Outer Rim Territories

Some time before the _Leviathan_ capture

* * *

You owe your life and more to Senna Aiza, even if you can't help but suspect he's not who he says he is. You've sworn an oath that cannot be broken and you will do his bidding whatever it is.

At first, he actually asks very little of you. You are not exactly inconspicuous or sociable, so you don't mind spending so much time on the Ebon Hawk. But then Kashyyyk happens. Chuundar holds you hostage, Chuundar dies, and your father is in command and your people are free. And then, when you owe Senna so much that you cannot even begin to pay him back, only then does he make requests of you. And you obey, even when his orders cross far beyond what your morals and honor would otherwise stand. You swore an oath. You have to give something in return. 

In the future, when you're standing on the _Leviathan's_ bridge with Bastila in your arms and Revan's voice in your head, you will look back on this and understand: it is no coincidence. You are loyal, intimidating, stronger than any human, and, most importantly, _you are meek_. Cowardly. Obedient. Better than even the most perfect slave, because you essentially enslaved yourself.

Your first glimpse of who Senna - of _Revan,_ though you don't know it at the time - really is on the second visit to Tatooine. Mission refuses to speak to her brother after their reunion went so poorly, so Senna brings you to meet with the slimeball instead. And though it quickly becomes clear that he has no intention of helping Griff - you wonder if he tampered with the tach glands himself so the whole scheme would fail - you don't object terribly to that. After all, how can you have sympathy for someone who leaves his little sister to fend for herself in one of the most corrupt, dangerous cities in the Outer Rim? No, you don't mind. You don't even mind as much as you should when Senna orders you to pick the Twi'lek up by his neck so the Jedi can threaten him better. You don't mind too, _too_ terribly, and definitely not as much as you should, when he has you haul Griff over your shoulder and forcibly carry him to the appointment with his Exchange contact.

Anchorhead is larger than it looks from the main square, and you go much further into the city than you expect. Unfortunately, the shade of the labyrinthine alleyways can't help the fact that you have more fur than even the richest Tarisian woman's winter coat. Soon you are panting heavily, and Senna beckons you lean down to his eye level so that he can - oh. So that he can hand you his own water flask, apparently.

"You ought to keep it," he says, when you take a sip with your free hand and pretend you don't want more. "You're doing more work than I am." 

Not for the first time, you marvel at how gentle and polite Senna is when he speaks to you. Truthfully, he's quite literally the most polite person you've ever spoken to. Mission is sweet, but her manners leave much to be desired. And your kinsmen… well, courtesy is not a common Wookiee trait. And, frankly, foolishly, you're impressed and touched by his kindness enough to nearly forget that you're kidnapping a man in broad daylight. Not that he doesn't probably deserve it.

Griff’s Exchange contact has arranged to meet him at an oddly tall and oblong building you think may be a brewery. Still making your way through the alleys, you and Senna approach from the back, and he gestures you wait by the back door while he enters through the front and does… whatever it is that he’s here to do. You find a shady spot against the wall and lean against it, getting comfortable as best you can with a squirming Twi’lek on your shoulder. His wrists and ankles are bound, so he’s not much of a physical challenge, but the tape sealing his lips doesn’t muffle him _quite_ enough. At least he’s too worn out to bother shouting.

Minutes pass. Then half an hour. You wonder if the suns even move across the sky, and how long they’ll bear down from above. Then some minutes more.

You hear the door open before you can do anything about it. Griff startles and thrashes on your shoulder, to little avail.

“Oh, I see,” a man in a lab coat and apron chuckles as he opens the door, “I was wondering just how you’d gotten him here.”

Senna’s voice carries from behind him. “I generally try to be more discreet with this kind of thing, but my equipment is limited at the moment.”

The man - definitely part of the Exchange, judging by the arrow tattoos wrapped around his fingers - looks you up and down before beckoning you inside, and you gratefully step into the cool, somewhat damp air. You only get a moment to look at him before he turns to move again, but there’s not much you can deduce from his appearance anyway, other than that he’s probably in his forties and has a taste for impractical hairstyles.

“Here, you can place him in this room,” he says, leading you down the tiled-hallway and into a mostly bare office. You deposit Griff, now flailing wildly, in the terminal chair as Senna handcuffs him to it. Once he’s secured, you and Senna step out of the room so that the contact can lock it.

Apparently your expression gives you away, because Senna touches your arm in a reassuring manner. “He won’t be killed. Or harmed, really,” he tells you, unintentionally reminding you for the first time that that is _exactly_ how these kinds of crime organizations do business. “He’ll be forced to work off his debt, of course, which I’m sure he considers akin to death, but he’ll be fine. Better than working out in the desert, and far better than dying.”

Unconvinced, you growl and rumble lowly. “Doesn’t this seem… like slavery?”

Senna raises a brow. “I’ve paid quite a bit of what he accumulated in interest and negotiated off the rest, so he’ll only have to pay off exactly what he borrowed. He’ll continue to live in his flat and do whatever else he likes as long as he doesn’t leave Anchorhead. Unless you have a different idea?”

The Exchange-man cuts in, adding, “I think it’s more than favorable to him. _Unreasonably_ favorable, actually, considering the original understanding was that if he stiffed us, we’d make sure he ended up in a few dozen different dumpsters across the city.”

Well, you can’t deny that. Perhaps, you hope, Griff will even learn his lesson and stop scamming people. Still, you can’t quite shake the feeling of unease that lingers like a second coat. You peer down suspiciously at the two humans and ask, “How did you come to this new arrangement?”

“Your Wookieee talks a lot,” the Exchange-man remarks, thoughtfully scanning you up and down. Senna shoots you a disapproving grimace; likely he doesn’t want you accidentally talking the man out of the deal, you realize belatedly. “Amazingly docile, though. Perhaps...”

You bristle and glower, mustering every bit of intimidation and confidence you can so that you appear anything but docile. It amazes you how many humans speak so freely in front of you, as if you weren’t twice their size and sevenfold their strength.

Thankfully, Senna intervenes. “Zaalbar is not a slave. Nor will he be.”

“Pity,” he shrugs, and it takes serious effort on your part not to bare your teeth at him. Turning to Senna, he says, “Well, my lord, it has certainly been a pleasure doing business with you. You’ve proven yourself time and time again a reliable partner to the Exchange, and my boss will be more than happy to welcome your return.” 

This time, you wait until the pleasantries are finished and the two of you are escorted outside and out of hearing before you question your employer. “What was that about?”

The annoyance on Senna’s face is… disheartening. You stare down at your feet, shuffling along. You do like Senna, so the tacit scolding stings all the more. Actually, you’re fairly sure this is the first time he’s ever shown you anything like disapproval.

“I was a smuggler before Taris, remember?” And that’s right, you’ve been told something along those lines. “I moved product for the Exchange all throughout the Mandalorian Wars, so I have a number of connections. Oh, and Zaalbar?”

“Yes?”

You like Senna. You _do_. He’s likely just about the most courteous, considerate, and kind person you’ve ever met. He’s freed you and your people, respected your privacy and culture to the best of his ability, and more than happily taken care of you and Mission. And in return, he asks so little of you. So why do you feel so _unnerved_ by how he’s looking at you?

“When I’m manipulating someone, do not ask them _to their face_ how I did it. _Please_.”

His narrowed eyes have an odd, indefinable quality about them, as if… as if they had an impossible _depth_ , so that you can all but see the very lens inside. As if there were… bits and bits of gold in them.

You like Senna, and you owe him your life, so you just nod your head and agree. “Of course. Sorry.” You like him and owe him even if you know in your bones that he’s more than a smuggler, and far more than anything he’s willingly told you. What kind of smuggler does a mobster call 'my lord?'

* * *

SUMMARY:

REVAN - LEVEL ?? - JEDI CONSULAR

Light Side Points Gained: 2  
Dark Side Points Gained: -14

Item(s) Received: Griff  
\- Hostage

Item(s) Removed: Zaalbar  
\- Water

Item(s) Removed: The Exchange  
\- Hostage  
\- Credits (5000)

[THE EXCHANGE has joined your faction.]


	4. Yuthura Ban

Sith Academy, Korriban, Horuset System, Outer Rim

_Some time before the Leviathan capture_

* * *

In hindsight, you must look like quite the fool. You feel like it. Someone should have warned you.

_So you wouldn't recognize Revan if the two of you met?_

Force, he wasn’t even being subtle about it. 

_Regardless, I doubt I shall be meeting Revan anytime soon,_ you’d said.

_Indeed. You already have._

Lord Revan, you realize quickly, is going to outplay you - assuming he hasn’t already, and not counting his earlier little jest. Certainly he is going to outplay Lord Malak when the time comes, make a fool out of him, too.

You’ve heard of the Dark Lord’s charisma and cleverness, you’ve seen how he bent half the galaxy to his cause with his artful words and indomitable will. And, though you’ve heard the countless stories and praises, it occurs to you that you somehow missed the warnings in them. Of course, you never thought you’d come face to face with the man himself. 

You never thought your newest, most promising recruit would take you by the hand and thrust your mind into a series of overwhelming Force visions. Revan and Malak at the Star Map in the Tomb of Naga Sadow. Revan retrieving a datapad from his robes to record the map’s data coordinates, pulling off his famous helm to better see the soft, floating lights. Revan with his face bare and familiar, with his gray-black eyes and dark skin and darker hair. Revan on his flagship, ready to cut through the several Jedi in front of him, noticing just at the last moment a bright, blinding light shining into the window - from Malak’s ship, you realize - it should have killed him -

But here he is, alive and bristling with the Force. And here you are, the fool. Alone together, _conspiring_ together, hidden away in one of the Valley’s numerous caves hardly even an hour after the initial revelation.

“Thank you for indulging my paranoia,” he says, as if you would ever consider doing otherwise. “Secrets typically don’t remain that way for long on this planet.”

“Of course,” you agree, because isn’t it your duty to train these studies to do just that? To whisper in secluded crannies, and eavesdrop around corners? You suspect Lord Malak will give quite the boon to the Sith who manages to snitch on Darth Revan... assuming Malak knows his master is alive.

“Will you tell me about yourself?” he eventually asks, and, like a fool, you do. Of course you do. It must be some kind of test, but you aren’t sure what. You know how to manipulate and maneuver your way through conversations well enough to protect yourself - a necessity, among the Sith - but usually you also have the authority or at least peerage to be evasive. It’s one thing to tell a student or peer that they don’t need to know your history; it’s quite another to so openly deny _Darth Revan_ a direct question. 

Besides, what of it? You’re proud of how far you’ve risen - from slave to Jedi Padawan to full-fledged Sith. Proud of the lengths you went to and were able to accomplish despite your young age. You’re proud that you’ve thrown off the weakness and apathy of the Jedi, and - anyway, you reason, it may be wise for you to willingly expose your past to Revan, instead of risk giving him a reason to distrust you. Perhaps he’ll even tell you about himself. And none of this information can hurt you. Many Sith are former Jedi. And you’re no longer a slave. And, most importantly, you still desire to see change.

“There is suffering and injustice in the universe. I am surprised the Jedi can even stand the _stench_ of it, much less stand by and do nothing,” you snarl, and there is so much hatred in your voice. There is so much suffering…

But Revan is waiting, listening patiently, so you continue on. “I know this may sound strange,” you admit, “but only my compassion stands in my way, now. Once that is gone, let the slavers beware.”

You aren’t sure how you expect him to react - with understanding, maybe? Pleased? Disappointed? - and yet somehow he still catches you off guard. He smiles in some secret amusement, his bottom eyelids scrunching up and revealing the barest hints of crow’s feet, and the corners of his lips bending crooked and playful. The laugh lines that form on his skin indicate that the sly expression is one he adopts frequently. There’s actually something inexplicably, _indecently_ disarming about his smiles, you find, and for a moment you forget what you are saying. 

“Do you know why I chose you over Master Uthar?” He asks, and you happen to notice that he has _dimples_. 

Distracted as you are, it takes you a moment to process his question and recover your wits. “No, I don’t believe I do. I won’t presume why.”

There’s a glimmer of knowing and excitement in his gray eyes, and an almost boyish curve to his smile. Someone _really_ ought to have warned you. “Mhm, but you should. You should be speculating the motives of everyone you meet, or else you won’t survive for long among the Sith. I’m sure you know that.”

 _Ah_. You nod jerkily, well and truly embarrassed; where is your pride and disdain, Sith? You feel like a Padawan being scolded by your Jedi Master again. But this is Lord Revan himself, so you’re not too harsh on yourself for wanting his approval. You awkwardly clear your throat. “Of course, of course.”

His eyes are still shining. Not from the nearby lamplight, surely - the angle is all wrong for that. No, it’s not - it’s not _that_ kind of light. It’s the kind of light that comes from within, quite literally - the soft glow that emanates from the flecks of gold woven into his irises, that subtle indicator of true power and passion. The telltale amber of the Dark Side’s influence.

“The reason I’m choosing you over Master Uthar,” he says, primly folding his hands over his abdomen, “is because it’s clear that we are exactly alike. You and I understand better than any of the Sith or Jedi the _true_ purpose of anger and passion, and how we use the Force to bring about change.”

Perhaps he’s manipulating you. How can he know exactly what to say? You can’t help that your heart leaps when he likens you to himself. You can’t help that you’re hanging on every word, that you don’t know how to respond. You can’t help that no one warned you about his smile, his laugh lines, his crow's feet.

Evidently, he knows it, too. There’s a smugness to his demeanor and expression that, on anyone else, you would find laughably arrogant. “But the Dark is difficult to navigate on your own, and it’s so easy to become lost. After all, if you lose your compassion, will you still care about those slaves?”

 _No_ , is your instinctive answer. Of course not. Why should you care for slaves? They are nothing. _You_ were nothing.

You don’t say this. Instead, you stumble gracelessly on your words, backtracking without direction. “I... yes, of course. I mean losing my compassion as in... holding back…”

Too late, you see the predatory gleam in his eyes for what it is. “You won’t care in the slightest,” he corrects, merciless in his honesty. “You won’t have compassion for anyone, including yourself. You’ll torment anyone weaker than you, and when that isn’t enough, you’ll turn on yourself and self-destruct and self-mutilate as best you can. I know, because I’ve been there, too.”

You cringe, unwilling to even imagine - you can’t - and yet - yet, you know every word is true - why is he telling you this?

You startle at the touch of leather gloves as Revan gently places his hands on your own. You can’t look him in the eyes anymore. “Compassion does not hold you back. Compassion _guides_ you. I can guide you, if you’ll follow. If you’ll help me stand against Malak and the Order. Yuthura?”

You should have been warned.

* * *

As it turns out, you are not the only one.

Revan weaves his web throughout the Sith Academy, shrouding students and masters alike in his conspiracy, with an efficiency and stealth that you can’t help but marvel at. You shouldn’t even be surprised - this is Revan after all, and, under Malak’s rule or not, he has certain home advantages among the Sith - but still, you can’t help but liken it to watching a Padawan duel a Master: brief, effortless, and embarrassingly one-sided. The longer Revan stays on Korriban, the more certain you are that joining his cause is not only a means to further your goal against slavers, but also simply the most pragmatic choice in general. No wonder Malak did not dare strike until his Master’s back was turned.

Aside from you, Revan directly recruits only two others: the Sith prospects Dustil Onasi and Belaya, the ex-Jedi from Dantooine. Better to keep this particular operation small, goes his reasoning.

He isn’t able to stay on Korriban for long - too high a chance that eventually someone will recognize him - and leaves without finishing his exams and reaching his Star Map, at least as far as his Jedi companions are aware. Of course, they don’t know that he doesn’t need to reach the Star Map now: you simply retrieve a datapad from your quarters and hand the coordinates to him. After all, you, Master Uthar, and some other highly-ranked Sith on Korriban have all already seen it for yourselves, though none of you could fathom any use for the jumbled, incomplete coordinates. And, with a location so thoroughly lost in the Unknown Regions, it’s no wonder that Revan simply can’t remember or retrace his steps back; were he to get even one digit wrong, he’d never find it. You’re somewhat curious as to how Revan justifies leaving Korriban prematurely to his crew, though supposedly Dustil is essential to that bit of intrigue, given that he goes with them. You aren’t far behind.

Sith do not like unpredictability in their colleagues - it bodes ill, and usually betrayal - you can’t help but imagine how paranoid Master Uthar must be when you quietly leave Korriban. As petty as it is, you hope he loses sleep over it, and likely he will. Betrayal is so ingrained within Sith ideology that hardly anything else can be expected; why else would you disappear from the Academy in the middle of the night, if not to prepare some plot to kill your Master? Such is the way of the Sith.

And, in fairness, you _are_ doing just that - when your ship lowers into Manaan’s atmosphere and touches down in Ahto City, it is fully for the purpose of meeting with your conspirators. Of course, the target of the conspiracy is not Uthar, but instead Lord Malak.

You take the keycard Revan had given you and hold it out in the sunlight, scattering bright-white reflection spots every which way. For some reason, you hesitate, wasting time to marvel at how the thin material of the keycard refracts the light, pretending that someone isn’t waiting on you. This is your last chance to back out. To return to the Sith Academy and pretend this never happened. To seek out the Sith Embassy in the city and send an urgent transmission to your superiors. To return to the Jedi Order, even, if you wanted. If you move forward, all of those paths will be closed.

The keycard glimmers between your fingers. It… reminds you of Revan, actually, and how his eyes shone so bright with hope and with the Force, like the halo of a solar eclipse. 

You stand there, hesitating, thinking, wavering. You must have looked like that once, all hope and passion and conviction. Conviction that the galaxy was rotten with injustice, and you were going to do something about it even if the Jedi wouldn’t. Now, you know that the Sith have no interest in doing something about it either. 

_Compassion guides you._

You run the pad of your thumb over the surface of the keycard and make your decision. Let the slavers tremble. Let the _Masters,_ Jedi and Sith alike, fear. Like a fool, scared but determined, you walk forward to your new destiny.

* * *

REVAN - LEVEL ?? - JEDI CONSULAR

Light Side Points Gained: 18

Item(s) Received: Yuthura Ban  
\- Korriban Star Map Datapad

Item(s) Removed: Yuthura Ban  
\- Ahto City safehouse keycard

[DUSTIL ONASI has joined your party.]  
[DUSTIL ONASI has joined your faction.]  
[YUTHURA BAN has joined your faction.]  
[BELAYA has joined your faction.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another update to make up for yesterday's being so short. :3


	5. Jolee Bindo

Pre- _Leviathan_

* * *

You understand who Revan is for quite some time before Saul Karath blows his cover on _the Leviathan_. In the deepest parts of Kashyyyk, a stilted, robotic voice floats through the humid air and the computer lights flicker weakly, struggling not to be swallowed by the shadows of the ancient jungle. The Jedi newcomer - a mere Padawan, supposedly, despite his age and the swirling Force about him - responsible for dragging you down here to be his guide stands next to you, his gaze fixed on the computer’s holographic avatar.

You nod your head at the Shadowlands’ best hidden anomaly. “Yes, there's the thing. Obstinate machine. I've no doubt it holds what you seek, but good luck getting it operational.” Countless attempts over the years, all instantly rejected. Whatever kind of mind this machine is looking for - Force-sensitive, surely? - it isn't yours, or anything like yours. You don't know how much time you've spent before this machine, sometimes quietly meditating, other times running your fingers up and down the sides for something, anything, any kind of button or key or switch or _something_. Nothing. How this thing even maintains power is beyond you, though you imagine that the immense field of Dark Side power around it has so be relevant.

The Jedi Padawan presses his hand to the touch screen. You're instinctively preparing to hear the same grating message you always hear, the obnoxious and stilted drone of _You do not match the pattern in memory. Subject has failed to demonstrate_ \- 

“Primary neural recognition complete," the hologram announces instead, to your instant chagrin. "Preliminary match found."

“Match _found...?_ What the...” you grumble, like the crotechedly old man you are. “It always muttered something about 'rejected patterns' for me!” 

There’s about… two, maybe _three_ solid seconds before this ancient, inanimate computer with its odd, fish-person avatar and stilted-cadence voice single-handedly ruins the Jedi Council’s intricate, desperate scheme - and, consequently, Revan’s efforts to conceal his knowledge of them. Going by the way his body suddenly tenses up, he realizes what’s going to happen a just split second before it actually does.

“Begin socialized interface,” the hologram continues. “Neural scan indicates positive identification of subject " **REVAN**.” No further testing of the subject is required. I will brief you as programmed. You are Lord Revan.”

...

...

...

 _Ah_.

“I am waiting for your request to begin transfer of the Star Map.”

 _Ah_ , you think again, as if it makes sense, because your age-gained wisdom and sharp tongue have suddenly deserted you. Swirling Force indeed.

Objectively, you can admit that this situation, this great and unintentional 'Revan revelation,' so to speak, is pretty damn funny. Two adult Jedi men staring at a computer at the bottom of the jungle, dead silent and rooted to the spot as the galaxy’s most dangerous secret is accidentally revealed - and not because the computer is programmed maliciously but _because Revan forgot to press the mute key_. Seems he simply forgot it would say his name (openly, emphatically, _repeatedly_ ) aloud.

When you look, it's clear that Revan is... less than pleased, with something between a grimace and the beginning of a sardonic grin on his face. You hold your breath, trying to stifle any reaction to the (ex?) Sith Lord’s open consternation. For a few long minutes, not even the damn computer speaks.

Then, under his breath, he whispers, “ _Motherfucker_.”

You _feel_ the twinge in your diaphragm from holding in that laugh (now is _absolutely_ not the time, Jolee). Betrayed by his own lines of code! Truly devastating. Oh, to be a fly on the wall or one of the tachs in the trees, present to observe but still removed from the gravity of the situation to enjoy it. 

Because there is very, _very_ great gravity in this situation.

You clear your throat, recovering yourself from the brief moment you’d lost them to stare bug-eyed at him, and casually pretend you don’t realize the danger you’re in. “I take it you didn’t mean for anyone to hear that?”

The way Revan’s fists visibly clench isn’t comforting. At least they’re empty of lightsabers.

“What makes you say that?” he asks too lightly, raising an eyebrow in ironic-skepticism. He can certainly pile on the sarcasm.

Reality makes quick work of your mirth, and you take a slow step back. You’ve survived and even overcome plenty of hazards in your long life; smuggling through blockades and planetary war-time defenses, the misery and chaos of Exar Kun’s war, decades in some of the galaxy’s most untamed jungles… There’s no denying that at this point, you’re quite dangerous yourself, it's true. But you're not _defeat a goddamn Sith Lord_ level of dangerous. This man defeated _Mandalore himself!_ Sure, he blows his cover in less than an hour of knowing you, but you don't think he'll get that unlucky twice.

No, no, you can't expect to fight Darth Revan and come out alive. The only threat you pose to him is that now - now that you’ve guided him here and fulfilled your purpose - you know who he is, and that isn't something you can use as a defense.

“ _Don’t_ ,” you caution, your voice just barely audible, as if volume might set him off. It’s usually best practice, if you’ve learned anything from interacting with the animals down here. “I don’t want to fight. And I’m not here to judge you. You just do what you have to, and I'll help if I can.”

It’s been a long time since you’ve made such an unconditional promise like that, and you aren’t entirely sure if you truly mean it or if you just want to live. The lower Shadowlands are familiar to you well enough; if you can at least get out of his sight, maybe you can escape. But maybe you shouldn't try to escape; maybe this is the Force’s way of signaling the end of your long, eremitic exile, and that it is time for you to end your isolation here and finally rejoin the galaxy. You botched the last war and sat out the next - and what help were you to anyone except the Wookiees? And even then you can't fix all of their problems, either, unless you escalate to a higher authority like Czerka or... a leader of the Sith or Republic.

This is your chance to repent for what you didn't do before, says the Force. You can feel it excitedly buzzing and churning in your veins, just as you can feel the untamed power radiating from Revan’s core, slipping down from his spine and chest to the jungle floor in heady waves.

 _Sithspit_ , Revan? You're allying to Darth fucking Revan? He doesn't feel like a Sith, when you carefully probe him via the Force, but you doubt Revan would have little trouble hiding it from you if that were the case. Forgetting the computer's programmed response is likely enough to remind him to be more guarded, anyway.

The hologram flickers, waiting with the patience of an immortal machine, as Revan considers your offer. He still does not turn toward you, or move at all, really. With half his body draped in the forest's shadows and the other half illuminated by the hologram, he looks... surreal. More like a Force ghost or the object of a vision than a fully-human Jedi. 

“That’s awfully altruistic," he notes, his tone still mockingly casual. "Do you make a habit of helping everyone you come across? As long as they aren’t wearing a Czerka uniform, I mean. First it’s the Wookiees and now a Sith Lord.”

You let slip a nervous chuckle. “Well, it’s not like there’s not exactly anyone else who ever comes down here, so yes, I suppose I do.”

Thank the Force, the joke goes over surprisingly well; his shoulders relax somewhat, and the ironic half-grin in his expression smoothens into something more genuine. Of course, it helps that you can feel him through the Force, probing for your intentions and core morality as you'd done to him.

“Fair enough.” Finally, he breaks from his self-paralysis to face you. “But you’re delusional if you think I’m going to allow you to join me without a legitimate reason as to _why_.”

You scoff, though really you have no right to take offense. Earlier, he’d already been somewhat hesitant to accept your help when you _didn’t_ know who he was. This time, convincing him will be more difficult. Playing up the angle of the crazy man helped you then, so you do the same now. “You’re a little low on allies to be so picky.”

“And yet I also have too many enemies to be so trusting,” Revan retorts, and you wonder who else knows he's alive. Surely not many, or else he'd have had someone else come down here so he could continue to wage his war.

“Who are you and why do you want to help me?" he demands. "How can I know you’re on my side if you don’t even know what my plans are?”

At that moment, the computer hologram saves you from answering, repeating that it needs Revan’s explicit request in order to transfer the Star Map data. For the second or third time, you just gesture vaguely at it. “I know it’s got something to do with that Star Map.”

He's not convinced yet. “Obviously. Do you know what it leads to?”

This time you hesitate, because you aren't sure if revealing what you know will spook him, given how paranoid he seems to be. And you _cannot_ afford to spook him or scare him off, regardless of whether your goal is to just survive or to genuinely join him. The reality is that you can feel the enormity of Revan’s potential influence on the galaxy through the Force. And, unlike with your old friend Andox Vex, you can tell that it won't be by some undignified accident, but instead by Revan's choices. Maybe his fate - and that of the galaxy's - is already predestined, in which case you're simply meant to accompany him. Or maybe it isn't, and your guidance might have tangible effects on his decisions. Either way, you need to go with him and guide him as best you can. You can feel the Force screaming it, echoing in your bones, pulling you towards him like a blackhole. Or maybe you just want to help a Sith return to the Light, like you were unable to do with Nayama so long ago.

To return to the point: whatever the Star Map leads to, Revan will use it to win the war. Even in the depths of Kashyyyk, you've heard from the Czerka and Wookiees how two Sith lords returned from deep space with an impossibly formidable armada, and you can feel the dark energy buzzing around the Star Map now. Maybe it leads to another civilization, and they granted Revan a fleet in exchange for some. Maybe he found something that built the armada for him entirely. In any case, Revan is not seeking an ancient, Dark Side Star Map in the depths of Kashyyyk because he has better chances of surviving and winning the war by doing anything otherwise. 

You _cannot_ afford to scare him off, but no doubt he'll recognize a lie if you try one. So, a technical truth: "To Darth Malak, I presume."

“For me, all maps lead to Malak eventually.” A sardonic smirk pulls at one side of his mouth. His eyes squint ever so slightly, as if he might… what? Laugh? Cry, even? Whatever emotion it is, it vanishes quickly. “Is that where you want to go? To Darth Malak?”

“To stop him?” you clarify, pretending to remain casual but unable to keep from shifting your weight restlessly. The ground is so damp here you can feel the moisture threatening to seep through your boots. “Well, _I_ certainly don’t want to be the one to face and stop him, and there aren’t many alive who can except for you. All the rest of us can do is choose to either support you or him.” 

“Lord Revan,” the computer says, yet _again_ , “I am waiting for your request to begin transfer of the Star Map.”

He ignores it. "The Jedi don't support either me or Malak. You used to be one, clearly, so I have difficulty understanding why you'd choose to support me."

But _Force_ , he’s persistent. You sigh in exasperation, though the desire to not startle him keeps you from throwing your hands into the air.

“If you’re trying to change my mind, you’re doing an excellent job,” you grouse. “Look. The war has gotten so brutal under Malak that even _I’ve_ noticed, and I'm in just about the most isolated, primitive place possible. Poachers and even rogue Mandalorians choose to face the danger here rather than the war out there. Chuundar is getting worse. Czerka Corp is getting worse, more brazen and destructive, when before your disappearance, the Sith had kept them on a tight leash. Far fewer visitors come to Kashyyyk anymore unless they’re armed to the teeth, and the ones who _do_ come have been spreading reports that Malak is destroying entire planets, and apparently the Jedi can't or won't stop him!”

And because you want the chance to redeem yourself for Nayama. To make her death worth something. And because, frankly, the Dark Side has become worryingly powerful. Attuned to it as you are, you can feel that the entire balance of the galaxy is off kilter. It might not take much more to send it careening. Revan can be that final push - or the hand that steadies it. At the very least, the torrent of Force around him isn’t _Dark_ , so to speak; no more dark than a natural disaster is malicious, anyway. Maybe he’s simply hiding his intentions from your attempts to catch them, but you figure you’ll take your chances with the unknown danger than the evil that Malak is known to bring.

Revan rubs his chin thoughtfully, fingers brushing over stubble. As the tachs scream in the greenery above, you can’t help but be distracted by how… _ordinary_ he looks. Black, choppy hair. Plain and unremarkable face, aside from the numerous little knicks and scars. Dark-bronze skin only a few shades lighter than your own. Shorter than average, maybe. Certainly not like the most powerful Force-user in the galaxy. 

“I am waiting for your request to begin transfer of the Star Map.” The computer’s stilted voice breaks the tension in the air. When Revan turns to it, you half expect him to lash out at it in annoyance, like any good Sith would do and like you certainly want to do.

Of course, he does nothing of the sort. “Computer,” he says, in the kind of authoritative voice one uses with technology, “has anyone else been given the Star Map data?”

“Not since you put the restrictions in place, Lord Revan.”

“Good. Give me the Star Map now.”

The computer whirs and buzzes as it loads the data onto Revan’s datapad. “This unit has now completed its primary duty and has finished with the subject. Executing final action. Activation of Star Map commencing. Parameters reset. Stasis initiated. End communication.”

So, he’s deciding to trust you for now; surely he’d never let you near such important data otherwise. You best do what you can to keep that trust.

The moment the transaction is finished, however, Revan draws and ignites his lightsabers. Well, that was quick. You take another step back, ignoring how your boots squelch in the mud. Aren’t _you_ just the fool? 

Your hand is still reaching for your weapon when Revan cuts in half the computer instead of you, the brilliant purple of his lightsaber cleaving through the darkness of the forest. He doesn’t stop there, of course; with quiet efficiency and surprisingly little emotion for a Sith, Revan mutilates the ancient terminal until the melting remains are useable for nothing aside from a demonstration why younglings shouldn’t play with lightsabers.

You only feel yourself breathe again when his weapons are safely switched off. “You work everything out of your system?” you ask with a scowl, even as you know his actions are born from precaution rather than a tantrum.

Little shit that he is, he flashes you a quick grin. “Yes, for now. Let’s return to Freyyr. Hopefully he remembers you before he tears us apart.”

* * *

For the most part, Revan hardly has any need for your wisdom or sermons on the moral perils of the Force. Are you relieved that you don’t find him in danger of walking down a dark path, or are you disappointed to be mostly an accessory on this strange quest? Either way, the Force led you to him for a reason, and you intend to keep your end of the bargain.

In fairness, of course, he doesn’t exactly neglect or ignore you. In fact, he seems to enjoy chatting and even philosophizing with you - and, on occasion, he refrains from being a nosy pain in the ass long enough for you to appreciate the repartee, too - it’s just that he simply doesn’t need or invite much _instruction_. It quickly becomes clear that the man knows what he wants, certainly, and he rarely asks or listens to your opinion on what he’s willing to do to get it. Frankly, you’re just thankful Revan is every bit as judicious and even-tempered as he is resolute and ruthless. As it is now, he examines every option and side with an open mind, just as he’s quick to employ diplomacy and slow to use violence. (You don’t want to imagine how dangerous he was as a Sith Lord, with nothing to keep him within the realm of morality.)

It’s somewhat impressive, in all honesty. And you don’t mean to stare down your nose at the average sentient, but it’s true. Far worse and insidiously more subtle than the temptations of the Dark Side is the temptation to see the world in absolutes: black and white, good and evil, light and dark, all are easier for the sentient mind to grasp than the complex, often contradictory nuances of reality. Moderation is a difficult thing to fake, especially for a Sith Lord. Far easier is the illusion of right and wrong, of denying that in this life, not every good deed is rewarded. Of course, not _every_ good deed goes unpunished, either, but the reality is somewhere in the middle and very difficult to see. And yet, Revan sees it, and he sees it without asking for your help.

Of course, you should know better than to so carelessly tempt fate. 

The first time you witness Revan’s darker nature, you _don’t like it_. But to be fair, you don’t really witness it directly; instead, he tells you about it himself. Occasionally you think you see glimpses of it during your adventures to different planets for the Star Maps, but nothing substantial or concrete. Certainly nothing like what he describes to you in the medical bay of the _Ebon Hawk_. (However, though you don’t know it yet, the next time the latent Sith in him lashes out, you won’t be so lucky to have the buffer of receiving only an _account_ of it.)

It begins with _your_ story, ironically enough. Yours and Nayama’s. Or, rather, the barest outlines of it that you can get away with.

“Let me ask you this: have you ever been in love? Truly in love, I mean, and not simple infatuation.”

Revan scoffs, reclining lazily on the medical chair-bed. Your medical chair-bed! Disrespectful brat, not offering the seat to his elders. You like where you’re sitting on the counter, where you had been sitting before Revan let himself in, but still. It’s the thought that counts. 

“Never had the time or luxury for that between managing the wars and whatnot,” he says with a shrug. “The galaxy gets jealous if I take my eyes off it for too long."

Ah, yes. He’s been at the forefront of the galaxy’s major events for years now, hasn’t he? Maybe even a decade. You may have found love during a galactic civil war, but you weren’t too busy _leading_ it.

“Well. You're still at the beginning of your life,” you sympathize, unsure of your success. “There will be men and women in your life... perhaps many men and women... but if you're fortunate you'll find love _once_.” 

Here you go again, straight into the sermons of an old man with too many regrets. You’d swore you’d never become like this. But you need him to listen. “The Jedi, with their damnable sense of over-caution, would tell you love is something to avoid. Thankfully, anyone who's even partially alive knows that's not true.”

Revan glances toward the door rather than answer, hiding his face from you. Not exactly an encouraging sign.

“Love doesn't lead to the dark side,” you continue, filling in the gaps of his silence. “Passion can lead to rage and fear, and can be controlled... but passion is not the same thing as love. Controlling your passions while being in love... _that's_ what they should teach you to beware. But love, itself, will save you... not condemn you.”

“It’s equally capable of both, I assure you,” he retorts, and when he turns to face you again it’s with lips threatening to curl in a way dangerously close to _contempt_.

You don’t know why Revan turned to the Dark Side. No one does. You suspect this has something to do with it. Cautiously, you say, “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Revan crosses his arms and sort-of hums to himself, likely considering how much to tell you. He’s pried quite a bit more about your life out of you than you’d prefer, but he’s also less interested in persuading you to do anything.

“Love didn’t turn me to the Dark Side,” he replies, somewhat answering that question at least. “But it did _Malak,_ and many others who followed me. It was the single best tool I had to convince people to follow me, believe it or not, even far beyond what their morality would otherwise allow. Infatuation worked, too, but nearly so effectively. Most people want to be loved just as much as they want power, if not more.” 

That’s… you can’t disagree with it. In fact, you’ve heard that exact assertion be recited by more than one Jedi before. It’s odd indeed when Revan agrees with the Order on something you don’t. “I’m not sure we’re talking about the same kind of love.”

Usually, _you’re_ the one casually brushing aside clarifying qualifications. It looks a bit odd when Revan does it, with a literal, dismissive wave of his hand. “Love has a broader definition than you want it to have, and it’s quite an adaptable thing at that. Too adaptable, actually. It can be mutual or one-sided, healthy or obsessive and abusive, uplifting or dependent, and so on. Like the Force, it’s neither good nor bad, but we all need it one way or another.”

This… you set your feet on the floor panels and take a seat at the end of the bed, pushing Revan’s legs somewhat to the side. “These old ears can’t hear so well anymore,” you say, “but I think I can understand you. Should I ask how you came to learn that bit of wisdom?”

“ _Should_ you?” he repeats, and you don’t like the wry smile on his face. Why is it that he smiles so damn much, but only with you? Half the crew seems to think he doesn’t smile more than once a day at the most, and certainly never so insincerely, but you see him do it all the time. (...It’s because you know who he is, of course. And who he is, apparently, is a bit of an asshole, well-intentioned or not.)

 _Should_ you ask? Do you want to know?

 _For me, all maps lead to Malak eventually._

You aren’t decided yet whether to press him when he relents on his own. “I think everyone knows it instinctively, to an extent. I’ve heard the Revanchists be called my own little cult of personality…” And what a personality it is, though you don’t say that. “Anyway. I always knew, but it became conscious knowledge when I left the Order to go fight. Malak went with me, along with most of my closest friends. Some of them did not want to join the war or disobey the Council, but I was their big brother. They loved and trusted me, so they followed...”

He trails off, lost in thought, and you can hardly keep from swearing at him in frustration for dropping something like _that_ on you without explanation. It’s well known that Jedi form bonds with each other, and those bonds are the only attachments the Order allows, if only because preventing them would be impossible. But, in this case, Revan is clearly talking about a particular group. The original Revanchists...

Snidely, you ask, “You waiting for me to pepper you with questions, like you do me? Because _I_ know how to keep quiet till someone’s done talking.”

“Please. You’re _never_ done talking.”

Little shit. “Well, you have my attention, so make the most of it before I start again.”

“Fine,” Revan sighs deeply, imitating your best old-man irritation. You don’t like this role reversal. “Hm. What do you want from me? Malak followed me into the war and the Dark Side because he loved me, and he wasn’t the only one. I quickly realized how powerful a weapon love can be, when wielded correctly, and I took advantage of it.“

Darkly, he adds, “People have done terrible things for me, do you know that? Not because they were terrible people, but because I asked them to.”

His words sink into your gut, making you feel sick. “So I’ve heard.”

“No,” he says, and oh, you wish he’d stop looking at you like that, so pensive and imperious both. You wish he’d go back to looking like the mild, soft-spoken Padawan he pretends to be. “You haven’t, really. I didn’t do it to hurt them; I loved them, too, believe it or not. But these were things that needed to be done. Lives were on the line.”

You’re curious how often he tells himself that, no doubt with at least some validity. _Lives were on the line_. You’re not stupid enough to ask. Undoubtedly, he can see in your face, but chooses not to answer.

In some ways, Revan is the perfect Jedi. No attachments. No emotion, no ignorance, no conflict. No misguided mercy. Lives were on the line. You suppose this makes him the perfect Sith, too.

Finally, against your better judgement, you give in. “What turned you to the Dark Side? The lives on the line?”

“Something like that.” You expect Revan will never really tell you. But you're a stubborn old man, and you fully intend to ask again some day anyway.

* * *

REVAN - LEVEL ?? - JEDI CONSULAR

Item(s) received: Computer  
\- Kashyyyk Star Map Datapad

[JOLEE BINDO has joined your party.]  
[JOLEE BINDO has joined your faction.]  
[FREYYR has joined your faction.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put it in the tags, but these flashback chapters are not in chronological order. Revan does not visit Tatooine twice and Korriban once before meeting Jolee. Also, this is a two-part chapter, which is why what Revan tells Jolee isn't what Jolee's narration says.
> 
> Also, because this has happened to me before: if anyone thinks I as the author am advocating for or justifying anything Revan says or does in this fic... do not. Just don't. This is a fanfic about a game made 13 years ago. It's not that deep.


	6. Jolee Bindo, Darth Revan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter is rated Mature for violent content. I'm not changing the rating of the entire fic yet because so far, this is the only chapter like it, and because it's not particularly plot-important, it can be skipped if you don't want to read it. You've been warned.
> 
> With that said: Technically, my plan was to save Revan's POV chapter until everyone or nearly everyone else had their POV, but writing Revan is really, really fun, so here's a treat. Also, for reference, a shoto lightsaber is a shorter than average lightsaber usually wielded in the off-hand by dual-wielders.

JOLEE BINDO

“Earlier, you told me that you didn’t fall to the Dark Side for love. So what _did_ you fall for?”

“That’s a bit forward, isn’t it? At least buy me dinner first.”

“Oh, no, you’re far too young and energetic for me. I’m old enough to be your father, anyway.”

“So is Canderous, but _he_ still flirts with me.”

“Actually, forget I asked.”

  
  
  


It takes a few attempts. You regret it immensely when it finally works.

“Haven’t you badgered me about myself enough? Tell you what, I’ll tell you about Nayama if and only if you tell me something about yourself. I’ll match however much detail you include.”

“ _Anything_ about myself?”

“Sure. As long as I don’t already know it.”

“...Hm. That’s not a bad deal. An even trade… You wanted to know how I became a Sith, yes? Truthfully, I don’t really know what _in particular_ turned me to the Dark Side, so I’m not sure I can tell you anyway. It was the culmination of many things built up over a long, slow, and not very noticeable process. I only really realized it once I… Jolee, do you know how Lord Malak lost his jaw?”

* * *

DARTH REVAN

Bridge of the _Revanchist I_ , Outer Rim

Half a year into Revan's Rebellion

  
  


You pledge yourself to the Sith cause long before the Dark Side actually takes you. 

It is such a quiet thing, to fall. You don’t want to admit it. To give the terrible thing life by speaking it aloud. And, truthfully, you don’t really have to - actions speak far louder than words, and what you do to Malak on the bridge of _The Revanchist I_ leaves no room for denial.

The Force is both a tool and a god, you tell yourself. A means to an end and the end itself. The Light Side cannot give you the strength and ruthlessness you need to preserve the Republic, and you are a master of self-discipline, anyway. Who controls the Force like you, controls their worst natures better than you do? You can champion the Dark Side and not succumb to it, just as much as you can champion peace and enforce it with a lightsaber. A means to an end. 

Malak, of course, isn’t you, and he falls fast and hard to the Dark Side. _Weak-willed idiot_ , you think, watching your dearest friend draw his blade in defiance of you. From the moment you entered the ruins on Dantooine, you knew he would eventually fall to the Dark Side - the only surprise is how _quickly_ it happens. The war has only but barely begun, and the idiot's destroyed an entire planet! Oh, but you will make him pay for it. He will not disobey you again.

The fight goes harder than you’d like to admit, and you’re thankful that your helmet hides your labored breathing. Malak is better at swordplay than you are, but he always has been - if brute force alone were enough to lead the Sith, he would have been the Master, not you. As Malak swings heavily forward, you slip just out of strike-range and, with sparks on your fingers, loosen a pure blast of lightning directly at his face. He bellows in pain, and you take the opportunity to swipe at him with your saber, catching him on the side of his chin just barely above his throat. 

Malak retreats as you dart out of range again, and this time he holds his lightsaber up in preparation to catch lightning, as if he thinks it will really strike him in the same way twice. You shove him back with a Force Wave, just for good measure, though you allow him to stand up again rather than rush him from across the chamber.

“The war isn’t even won yet,” you grouse, and even through your helmet’s mechanized filter, your tone sounds disapproving and annoyed more than truly aggrieved. “Maybe you can ride on the successes I’ve made and survive the Jedi and Republic, but what about when the others arrive? What will your plan be then?”

He doesn’t answer, but you don’t expect him to. When he rushes you, you catch him in a Force Choke and mercilessly skewer him through the abdomen with your main lightsaber, swiping him across the face with your shoto. Malak gasps wetly and staggers backward, blood gushing from the ugly wound, and drops flat on his back on the ship's unforgiving floor. He coughs and sputters, trying not to choke on his own blood. You kick his lightsaber from his hand, sending it rolling across the bridge.

Your dearest friend. The other half of your heart. You knew Malak before you knew how to _read_. You love him and he repays you with betrayal. He will _not_ make that mistake again.

You pull off your helmet and hood, grateful for the cool air against your sweaty skin, and follow your apprentice to the floor. The cold metal is hard against your legs as you kneel and crawl forward, until you are fully straddling him. Distantly, you hear an agitated, anxious murmur from your crew, but you don't care. The cold, seething rage is loud enough in your ears to block them out. 

(Belatedly, you realize what this must look like, and you wonder if the crew will really let you violate a man right in front of them. You’re guessing yes, but that’s not something that appeals to you, so you’ll never know for certain.)

Malak's jaw is only halfway attached; the right side of his mouth is mostly unscathed, but what remains of the left side is no more than a horrid mess of burnt, bloody flesh. It hangs precariously, his tongue lolling out freely. Force, something about the morbid sight _excites_ you. Grinning wickedly, you stick your own tongue out to imitate him, uncharacteristically childish and cruel in your mockery. Malak doesn't seem to find it as funny as you do. He writhes underneath you, gurgling and whimpering, but too frightened and hurt to push you off. You find that amusing; he’s nearly twice your weight and over a head taller, but it doesn’t help him. You’re older and smarter and the Force curls around your fists and fingers like a pair of iron-hot brass knuckles, burning your skin, and nothing will help him now. 

Malak trembles, but doesn't move. What could he possibly do? His weapon is a good ways across the room, rolling across the floor, and his Force is exhausted. Nonetheless, you will make him pay for allowing you such leverage.

The heavy, _whomp_ sound of the impact from your fist against his face - and the crack of his nose - is what finally breaks you from your dissonant serenity. Honestly, it surprises you as much as it does Malak. The second punch, however, is far more intentional - and so is the third, and the fourth, and so on, faster and faster until you’ve lost track of everything except the wet sound of the back of Malak’s head bouncing against the floor, and the awful click-clack of his jaw bone against his chest. It’s not like you to scream your fury aloud like some crazed berserker, but you would if you could; unfortunately, you’ve never really exercised your vocal chords like that in… a long time. You don't know if you _can_ scream, so you don't try. _Malak_ screams easily, of course, and his volume would drown out anything your throat could produce anyway. It’s not like you to be loud - that’s what your helmet’s amplifier is for. It’s not like you to beat your closest friend and blood-brother into a bloody pulp, either, but somehow you find _that_ comes much more naturally.

Eventually, between the hanging jaw and the beating and the bloody floor, Malak passes out. Hissing in annoyance, you gather lightning around your hands and shock him to wakefulness. He cries out in pain, thrashing and kicking frantically against your stomach, and suddenly your patience evaporates. You take your shoto from the floor and ignite it, pressing it to the bloody pulp that is Malak’s mouth. You'll be kind, though, despite your anger, because you love and adore him, you grew up with him, you remember training with him, laughing with him, crying with him - and oh, he is crying now - 

You neatly sever the rest of his jaw, quickly and cleanly, and it drops down against his throat with a sickening click of bone and skin. This time, when Malak passes out, you don’t bother to wake him.

"Fuck!" Someone - Saul? - hisses, but you pay no mind. You gather yourself up off your apprentice and back onto your feet.

"Fetch the medical droids," you order to no one in particular, somehow feeling both overwhelming contempt and numbing dissociation. Your officers rush to carry out your will. Malak will live, probably, but he will think twice of openly crossing you again, at least for a little while longer. You certainly have given him something to contemplate over.

You try focusing on your surroundings enough to break through your strange, hybrid haze again until you spot Malak’s newest crony. “Karath,” you bark, and blood flies from your hand as you point at him. “Come here.”

There’s visible nausea on his pale face at the command, but nevertheless he approaches. He stops somewhat short, of course, just out of arm’s reach - likely instinctive, as there is no one on this ship under the illusion that space could offer any protection from you.

“My lord,” he says, words briefly catching on the bile in his throat. Perhaps his distance is for the best; you don’t mind Malak’s blood or gore or such because you love him, but Karath does not have the same sway with you. You're irate enough without dealing with an officer vomiting on your boots.

You must look like a monster. How gold are your eyes? Are the sclera black yet, or just bloodshot red? Have you fallen completely? The feel and taste of it are so _sweet_. Even your teeth are tingling with the sensation. The Dark Side is intoxicating in a way drugs can never hope to be.

“Welcome to the Sith, Admiral Karath," you say pleasantly and thickly, extending your blood-soaked hand. "I look forward to having you serve with us again.”

He swallows nervously and reluctantly clasps your hand. It would be suicide not to. “Thank you, my Lord.” He stiffens as you squeeze his hand firmly, implicitly trapping him in place.

How gold are your eyes? How gold are your eyes? Do they have that gorgeous ring of ember-red and amber glow? You can feel the sweat on Karath’s palm.

“Usually, an Admiral who acted against my direct orders like you did, even if to be in compliance with the wishes of my Apprentice, would face subsequent trial and severe punishment,” you inform him in a light but unsteady voice. How overwhelming, rage is. “This time, after taking into consideration your years of loyal service under Malak against the Mandalorians, and the fact that you had not been properly briefed and informed of my will before your attack on Telos, I will forgive you. I will not do it a second time.”

“Yes, my Lord, of course. Thank you, my Lord.”

You grunt in acknowledgement as your HK unit brings you Malak’s lightsaber and your helmet, and affectionately pat the droid on its vaguely roach-shaped head. It’s good to put Karath in his place - somewhere above the average officer but below a droid - early. There are very few humans still alive who receive that kind of familiarity from you, and the Admiral will never be one of them. Indeed, you’ll have to watch him carefully from now on, as Malak will surely use him for his next usurpation attempt. The next time he tries, you will be better prepared. Such is the way of the Sith.

It is such a quiet thing, to fall.


	7. Vandar Tokare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTES! It's in the tags, but Revan is afab transman. Because this chapter concerns part of his childhood before he transitioned, he is referred to with feminine pronouns twice, both in dialogue (but not narration). So here's a disclosure warning for very brief, though entirely accidental, misgendering. Similarly, Revan's original given name is unisex, but I didn't use it in Vandar's narration for consistency's sake (likewise, Malak is still called Malak in narration, even if he's Alek in the dialogue). Let me know if this was helpful or just confusing. If you're trans yourself, please feel free to critique me! It's my aim to not only have a badass and complex trans character, but also for my writing of him to be as respectful and enjoyable as possible. (TBH I am just a slut for comments in general. I love them.) 
> 
> Also, the end of this chapter brings us back to real-time.
> 
> Finally, uh, I haven't played KOTOR2 even though I allude to it a lot. Cameo characters may appear but don't assume everything happened how KOTOR2 said they did.

You still remember when Revan first came to the Order. 

Three years old, covered in dirt and scratches, too tired to bother with the curiosity and playfulness his age otherwise demanded. Wherever he’d come from, he’d apparently had quite a difficult journey. His sister - a teenager, her appearance only somewhat less disheveled and weary - held him in her arms, initially reluctant to give him away.

“Will she be okay here?” the sister asked, swaying from side to side, as if to rock her younger sibling - or, more likely, hide her restlessness.

His name wasn’t Revan then, nor would it be for quite some time. His sister didn’t offer a family name, but she didn’t have to; her appearance alone told you it was a somewhat complicated matter. Her dark hair was meticulously braided and folded into one of the intricate styles popular on planets like Alderaan or Naboo. The high-quality, vibrant fabric and distinctive cut of her clothes indicated she was the child of an affluent family, possibly of aristocrats or bankers or the like - though given how torn and muddied they now were, perhaps her family's affluence was only transient. 

Even stranger was the little pendant around her neck, glinting in the sunlight as she fidgeted and rocked to and fro, and as you looked you weren’t entirely sure what to make of the story it told you. You knew a Mandalorian crest when you saw one, even if you did not know the particular clan. Now that was interesting indeed. A rich girl from the Core Worlds, with a Mandalorian family crest and the hunted look of a refugee. How had _that_ come to pass?

“Of course,” you reassured, knowing full well she would have never brought him if she thought otherwise. Whatever she was trying to escape, the Jedi were clearly her last resort. “I sense the Force is very strong in her. I think she will excel here, and that she has a great destiny.”

You were right, unfortunately. Little did you know.

The girl cried when it was time to leave. Master Vrook put a hand on her shoulder, but she only sobbed harder; in her arms, the child who would someday be Revan regarded her lethargically, eyelids only half open. You and Master Vrook waited, patiently, until she could compose herself. Once she had, she kissed her little sibling on the top of the head and reluctantly set him on the ground, where she crouched at eye-level.

“Be good,” she said, her voice shaking. “I love you. Be good. Ret'urcye mhi.”

The Jedi Order forbids attachments. There is a two-fold reason to this: one, that love is a powerful enough thing capable of blinding even the most disciplined masters, and two, that a Jedi should not owe loyalty or obligation to any family or political ties. The latter reason, you find, is best exemplified by Revan’s case, where the cutting of attachments may have, for a time, saved the very Republic. It was worrying (if, in hindsight, unsurprising) enough when Revan left the Order to join the war, inadvertently splitting the Jedi between their desires for justice and their instinct to obey the Council. But perhaps you should just be thankful that when he joined the war, it was on the Republic’s side rather than his family’s.

Malak’s arrival is less clear to you, but you recall most of it. Unlike Revan’s arrival, Malak’s welcome was a happy one. Master Zhar ambled down the main road toward the Enclave, having evidently abandoned his speeder back at port so he could make the leisurely walk back without the constant rumble of engines. That was characteristic of Master Zhar whenever he went off to pick up a new addition to the Order; he preferred that a youngling’s first experience of Dantooine be quiet and serene, he claimed, so as to be an auspicious beginning. 

You couldn’t actually _see_ the new youngling until Zhar was relatively close. You turned toward the open field by the courtyard and beckoned for Revan - then five and already taller than you - from where he’d been playing in the tall grasses. 

“Look who it is,” you instructed, pointing to the growing figure of Master Zhar. 

Revan - he wouldn't be called that until later, but calling him anything else seems disrespectful - gave you a bemused sort of look, which was humorously precocious on his young face. “It’s Master Zhar,” he stated, as if you were some hopeless idiot.

Somehow you managed to suppress your chuckle. “And what’s that he’s carrying?”

The boy leaned forward and squinted, though you know he wouldn’t be able to see the youngling very well at this distance. Of course, you didn’t want him to _see_ it. “A Jedi,” he answered confidently.

“And why do you think that?”

Revan sighed heavily, clearly fed up waiting for your senile slowness. “The Force said so. I could feel it from way over there!”

An odd, if accurate, answer. “It’s not just a Jedi,” you corrected, “it’s a baby Jedi. A youngling, like yourself.”

“I’m _not_ a baby,” he protested, and you assured him you knew he wasn’t, but this one was.

You fondly brushed the hair from his forehead. “You and I are going to welcome him into the Order,” you told him. “It’s a very important job, but I think you’re old enough to handle it.”

The irritation promptly vanished from his round face, replaced by a look of intense seriousness. “I understand, Master,” he said, even though you were mostly being facetious. Such solemnity from one so small! Even back then, you knew austerity would never be something Revan lacked. ( _Humility,_ however…)

Malak’s future disposition, on the other hand, you were less certain of. But then again, one can never tell with babies. Temperaments varied over time. A Jedi’s affinity for the Force, however, remained the same throughout life; and as Master Zhar finally came into earshot, Malak sleeping snugly in his arms, you could feel the Force curling around the infant and thrumming in his veins. It wasn’t quite overwhelming like with young Revan, but it was certainly something more than the average Jedi.

“Here we are,” Master Zhar hummed once he was close enough, and carefully kneeled in the dirt so that he was holding the child at eye-level. “Welcome to the Jedi Order, little one.”

Without prompting, Revan straightened his back and reverently repeated his elder’s words. “Welcome to the Jedi Order, little one.”

You chuckled. May as well make it three, yes? “Welcome to the Jedi Order, little one.” To Master Zhar, you added, “Does this one have a name?”

He shook his head. It was - and still is - somewhat rare for the Order to welcome initiates as young as Malak was then; some were orphaned, others had been put up for adoption, and names were easily lost in what was often a tumultuous process. At that point, the Order - most often the same Jedi who had recruited the infant - provided a name. “Not officially, no, though I’ve been mulling over a few I think could fit. Possibly Adrian, or Alek, or Feliks.”

“Well,” you said, turning to Revan, who was staring at the infant thoughtfully, “what do you think, Kyrie?”

Revan said nothing for several moments, pursing his lips in thought. Finally, he pronounced, “He’s not a Feliks.”

Master Zhar smiled. “I wasn’t sure about that one, either. I think he’ll be Alek from now on.”

You nod in agreement, and Revan brushed his fingers against Malak’s forehead like you had just done to him, though the baby’s wispy hair wasn’t long enough to even be in his face to begin with. “Hello, Alek,” he whispered. “You don't know me yet, but my name is Kyrie. We're gonna grow up and learn to be Jedi together. I'll show you how, once you're big enough."

And, to Revan’s credit, that was exactly what he did while he was still with the Order. At that particular point in time, Dantooine saw so few younglings - most went to the High Temple in Coruscant - that Revan had been the only one at the Enclave for nearly a year (there were two others when he first arrived, but they'd since gone on to be Padawans). But the arrival of baby Malak - and then little Heloise Surik, and Eloi Racz, and some others - made Revan the oldest of the bunch, and he took to the role spectacularly. Perhaps you should have put a stop to his trying to 'parent' them, but at the time, you were too wrapped up in the nightmares and memories of Exar Kun's war and the hatred it had sown between the Jedi; in comparison to that, the prospect of Revan being a bit too enthusiastic about his younger peers was a breath of fresh air. It was reactionary on your part, and maybe your failure to teach and enforce the principle of non-attachment was what eventually led Revan - and all those he took with him - down his dark path. But _at the time,_ watching Revan hold Malak steady as the latter took his first steps, or show Heloise how to write her letters, or comforting Eloi that holding a lightsaber really wasn't as scary as it seemed, _really_ \- 

Afterwards, well… how could you have known? Temperaments vary so much over time, after all, even in a single individual; only the ever-changing Force remains the same.

The last time you saw Malak on Dantooine, you were seeing him and a few other younglings - Eloi Racz and Heloise Surik, you remember - off to Coruscant, where they would begin their Padawan apprenticeship. Revan, being a few years the elder, was already there and making quite a name for himself. Malak was determined to do the same. Heloise seemed more concerned with just getting there first, and of course Eloi was too laidback to worry about anything. 

You stood in the courtyard, craning your neck after them, waiting until their ship escaped beyond the atmosphere. How long ago was that? Surely, it was lifetimes ago. To one of your kind, it ought to have been like the blink of an eye - instead, it feels like ancient history. What had happened to them, after they left your care? Where are they now?

Unfortunately, the Force sees fit to answer: 

At the peak of summer, Revan returns home to Dantooine, though he isn’t aware of it. Bastila brings his almost lifeless body before the Enclave Council, and you are not ashamed to admit that you cry when you see him. (You are not the only one, either; Master Vrook has to step outside for a moment to compose himself.) It takes you, Master Vrook, and Master Dorak nearly an hour to extract him from his helmet, shattered and welded into his skull as it is. His face is unrecognizable under its bruises and swelling and crushed cartilage - if you know this is Revan, it is initially because you trust Bastila’s word. Only once Revan begins stabilizing and breathing on his own again can you feel the faintest trace of his Force signature and know it is him. 

It's... as much of a relief as it is a horror, honestly. You haven't seen Revan since he was a child, and back then the Force around him had been so blinding and brilliant. Now you can only describe it as nothing less than grotesque, the Dark Side's influence stabbing into him like thorns. This is not the same pensive, ascetic, earnest child you watched grow up; he simply can’t be. This is someone else, a stranger warped beyond understanding and recognition by the Dark Side of the Force. In a moment of weakness, you try so hard to deny it. You try to convince yourself that this Revan is an imposter, and the child originally brought to you all those years ago had died fighting the Mandalorians. 

It’s no use, though. The mind forgets, temperments vary, but even as the body may change it still remembers. The ever-changing Force remains the same. No matter how thorough and delicate you and the other Masters are when you craft him a new identity, this is still Revan. This is the enigmatic refugee child from the Core Worlds, with a Mandalorian sister and wealthy parents. This is little Kyrie, the oldest of the Dantooine younglings, who adored them and was adored by them in turn; Kyrie, who showed an aptitude for the Force like no one you had ever seen before, and who even as a child sometimes seemed more like a force of nature than a human; Kyrie, who at adolescence began to transition into a body and identity that you were overjoyed to see brought him so much more peace and confidence; Kyrie, who promised you that the next time you saw him, he’d be a Jedi Knight, and kissed the top of your head in a gentle goodbye. Kyrie who couldn’t stand the sight of injustice, who despised being idle, who defied the Council’s will in order to defend the Republic and all the values he held dear. Kyrie, renamed Revan, Supreme Commander of the Republic and Lord of the Sith. 

You’re the one to suggest the name ‘Senna' for his new self. After all, were you not the Jedi who first welcomed him into the Order? You do your best to craft an identity you think is respectful and would be to his liking although, frankly, Revan is such a Jedi through and through that you can’t convincingly imagine him as anything else. (Well, Mandalorian, but that’s not exactly feasible nor desirable under the circumstances.) And then you send him off, yet again, this time unconscious and under the care of a Jedi barely old enough to be knighted, burdened with your last hopes for the fate of the galaxy.

(When Bastila brings him back after the disaster that befalls the _Endar Spire,_ you know the Council's deception is about as effective as rope, tape, and prayers; his memories, values, and attitude may be different, but his mannerisms, instincts, and thinking process are the same as before. Worse, you suspect he’s beginning to know, too; not consciously, maybe, but memory is such a physical thing. The mind may bury the hurt, but the body still flinches. In this way, in the same horrific way one can know that something unspeakable happened to them but can’t remember _what,_ Revan knows. He has the countless scars and knee-jerk reactions to show for it. He wrings his hands and complains of deja vu because he's never been to Dantooine but somehow knows where all the dirt paths lead. He fidgets as he tries on his new Jedi robes. He steals to the edges of the outer courtyard when he thinks none will notice him gone and weeps, pulling at his hair. It takes nothing less than the fate of the galaxy for you to stand aside and watch him suffer.)

(The entire operation begins ominously; a day after uncovering the Star Map in the ruins, Revan comes to you with another dream. Not a vision this time, but a genuine dream. A nightmare.)

(“I dreamed about Revan. I recognized him by his mask,” says Revan himself. “I dreamed that he killed me. He tackled me to the ground, beat me, and strangled me to death. And I just… let him do it.”)

(“It’s just a dream, right? Not a vision or a premonition like what I have with Bastila. I've never met Revan and never will, so he can’t actually kill me. Revan is dead. Revan _is_ dead.”)

* * *

You know where Revan is, but not the others. 

Unfortunately, the Force sees fit to answer once more: 

In the early Dantooine spring, just as the night gives way to the first few lights of dawn, Malak returns home to the Enclave. Unlike Revan, Malak is wide-awake in every sense and seething with hatred; his massive flagship blocks out the sun, casting the Enclave in darkness. If you survive the bombardment that kills your nearly all fellow Jedi, it is through the will of the Force alone. Even then, however, you survive by only the most generous definition - you may even be worse off than Revan was before, and as you begin to manifest into the Force, you find only the thinnest tendril of life holds you back. The last thing you remember - the sirens wailing, civilians screaming, the gruesome red glow from the blast of the starship’s turbolasers illuminates the countryside, casting bizarre, harsh shadows. 

(You remember when Master Zhar first brought him home. He was such a happy, sweet baby. He cooed contentedly whenever he was held, and simply observed his surroundings when he wasn't. His first steps were under Revan's guidance, and then he seemed to never stop following him. Oh, how temperments change.)

Before the blast hits, Master Vrook meets your gaze one last time. Your friend, your brother in the Force. You will see him again some day - you just hope, quite selfishly, that the two of you will be alive when it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the time of posting, I realized I completely forgot to make Vandar's dialogue in Yoda-speak and I refuse to change it now.


	8. Eloi Racz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OCs ahoy!

ELOI RACZ

Sith Embassy, Ahto City, Manaan

Several months before the _Leviathan_

Master Vandar, for all his wisdom and skill in the Force, may not know the location or fates of those talented, close-knit Padawan children he saw off to Coruscant so many years ago - but _you_ do. Not because you’re wiser or more skilled than the old Jedi Master, but because _no_ one is lost to you, you who have eyes, ears, mouths, and operatives everywhere in the galaxy; that’s what Malak pays you for, after all. It’s what Revan trained you for. You don’t need the Force to show you their whereabouts, because you have the entire Sith military intelligence network at your disposal.

You know where Malak is, of course, but that’s easy, considering that the backstabbing brat is currently your boss and half your job is keeping him informed of the happenings across the galaxy. You know, too, where in the Outer Rim Heloise is living out her exile, even though you swear to Malak that you don't.

But you don’t know the location of Revan - and why would you? Your game is that of espionage, which involves living targets, and as much as you’d like to pay your respect and mourn him properly, the fact is that the _Leviathan_ ’s turbolaser cannon more than likely turned Revan’s corpse into a flesh and durasteel paste even before it would then burn up in the atmosphere. Revan is a definitively dead man, and you try not to spend time, effort, or resources on dead men, no matter how much you loved them.

So when your subordinates initially bring you confirmation of Revan’s return, it’s all you can do to not swoon or break into tears on the spot. You clutch the datapad hard enough that your knuckles go white and your hands tremble.

“Sir?” your subordinate asks tentatively, unable to really make out your reaction beneath your mask but likely suspecting that it doesn’t bode well. “Are you okay?”

You stare at the window straight ahead, hardly registering the gorgeous deep blue of Manaan’s ocean churning below. “Yes,” you whisper. Reality comes back just enough for you to remember one crucial detail. “Ah. Agent Poslo?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You’re absolutely certain this data has not leaked to anyone else? Just us?”

“Yes, sir. No sentients aside from me were involved in this mission, and I had all the droids’ memory cores erased.”

“Good, good,” you breathe, your eyes stinging with the familiar burn of Dark Side influence. You let a hand fall away to your side. “Secrecy is paramount.”

Sith agent Poslo nods woodenly, his eyes flicking between you and the locked office door. No doubt he _thinks_ he understands the gravity of Revan’s survival. He does not. 

Unfortunately for him, he never will. You’re still staring off in a daze even as you casually draw your blaster from its holster and shoot Poslo in the head. His body hangs still for just a moment before it collapses onto the floor with a pronounced _thump_. 

Instantly, all the chatter outside your office falls silent. Before the air clears of the smell and sound of fizzling flesh, you press the intercom button mounted on your desk and speak into it. “Jorus, send a cleaning crew into my office. And give the all-clear to cancel any security protocol response. _Before_ they break down my door.”

You probably shouldn’t do that sort of thing - the officers get a bit bitchy whenever you shoot employees without at least warning embassy security first. And, to your credit, you usually don’t! In fact, your agents have the lowest ‘death by annoyed superior’ mortality rate of any of the Sith military departments. After all, it’s taken _years_ and no small amount of effort for you and Revan to cultivate a loyal and competent collection of spies to drive the Sith intelligence effort, and you don’t throw them away lightly. If this were literally any other matter, you wouldn’t have even considered killing Poslo. He was a good agent and had proven his discretion time and time again. Unfortunately, this is not any other matter; this is Revan, your big brother Revan, and you will make certain he will not be betrayed again.

The desk speaker crackles to life. “Yes, Director Racz. I’ll send someone in right away.”

You spare a glance at the body next to your boots; there’s still a bit of steam wafting off of it, and Force, you _hate_ the stench of blaster-broiled brain and body matter. Ugh, idiot; you should have used your slugthrower sidearm instead. It would help to open the windows and let the fresh sea-air in, but you haven’t survived as a spy this long because of carelessness. So you let the body sit and stink as you wipe your datapad clean and set about organizing lists of what - and whom - you’ll need for this new operation to form. You’ll need to covertly gather the loyalists, and recruit many more. Revan will need ships and a safe port of call, and some powerful allies - Manaan and the Sith forces on it will suffice for now, you think. Of course, the longer the operation goes on, the more likely it is to be discovered, so speed is of the essence. You’ll need to hash out some of the details with Revan, but already a plan is taking shape in your mind: if you can provoke a Republic agent to murder one of your operatives, the Selkath will have to get involved, and you can use the trial to reveal the Republic’s rampant covert operations in the city and fling Manaan’s fragile neutrality into its endless sea. Once the Selkath are turned against the Republic and expelled, Malak will almost certainly order the planet to be occupied. At that point, well, Revan’s miraculous return as liberator - or conqueror, should he remain Sith - will really be something to behold. And, anyway, it won’t be the first time you’ve engineered a battle to eliminate those of questionable loyalty from the ranks. 

Ah, but first. _First_. You allow yourself a small smile, not bothering to acknowledge the cleaning crew that creeps timidly into your office, and begin drafting your - mostly nonsense - holomessage. Revan will understand its meaning and significance. Once you make contact and he knows you’re still alive despite Malak’s frequent purges, Revan can decide how he wants to move forward. In the meantime, you prepare the groundwork for the new rebellion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slugthrower: a type of firearm that shoots metal bullet projectiles instead of energy bolts like a traditional blaster
> 
> Sorry for the wait! I have a 9-5 job now, which is awesome, but doesn't leave me much room for writing.


	9. Darth Malak, Revan

DARTH MALAK

Outer Rim

Your mistakes become clear only once it is far, far too late. And your worst mistake isn’t that you underestimate Revan. You _know_ Revan - you know him better than you do yourself, better than you know the hum of your lightsaber or the persistent tug and pull of the Force in everything around you. Better than you know anyone or anything. How could you not? You have known him since your infancy, and remained by his side for the vast majority of your life. You know what he’s capable of, and surviving a direct hit from the turbolaser cannon of an Interdictor-class cruiser isn’t it.

No, your mistake isn’t that you underestimate Revan. Your mistake is that you underestimate _Bastila Shan,_ and the Jedi Council by extension. Their proficiency at healing, their desperation, their recklessness, their stupidity and fanaticism - you’ve never even _considered_ that they would interfere in your usurpation of the Sith, that they would not only save Revan but go so far as to reconstruct his entire mind and personhood - that they would have the audacity to _send him against you_ \- 

Thank the Force, the Jedi are too stupid and cowardly to truly take advantage of Revan's gifts; if anything, from what Admiral Karath has told you, they seem intent on nullifying them as much as possible. Erasing Revan’s memory is a sensible enough, even if it means sacrificing quite a bit of information that could be weaponized against you. But to limit him to only searching for the Star Maps, rather than giving him a military command so that he may use his military genius and Shan’s Battle Meditation to turn the tide of war against you...? It’s as if the Jedi _want_ to lose the war. Still, you count your blessings. Frankly, even with the Star Forge’s infinite fleet, you aren’t confident you could outmaneuver Revan in a proper war. A duel, certainly, but a war? No. Too many moving pieces for Revan to trip you up with, and too many idiot subordinates you'd have to depend on. 

Luckily, that's something you don't have to worry about, now that the Council has practically delivered Revan and Shan into your hands. You could not have even dared dreaming of being this fortunate. The war is over, even if the Republic doesn't know yet.

Your shuttle zips along, and for neither the first nor last time in your life, you can’t help but feel that even hyperspace travel is excruciatingly slow. There’s no pressing need for your breakneck urgency except simple excitement. The hunt for Bastila is over thanks to Admiral Karath, and this time there is no Taris below for her to flee to. Just empty space, the _Leviathan_ , and all the Sith on board. Even if they escape their cells, and even if they survived the Sith personnel, where could they possible go? Nowhere. All paths lead to you.

Nonetheless, you push your shuttle to the very end of its capabilities. You know Revan’s skill for manifesting the impossible, brainwashed or not, and you will not underestimate Shan again. Even if the Council robbed them of every tool and advantage available, the two Jedi are a dangerous combination. You want them as far away from each other as soon as possible.

You’re still contemplating the grim possibility of their partnership when your ship finally drops out of hyperspace. You hold your breath and barely restrain yourself from pressing your face against the viewing ports; the _Leviathan_ is still far enough to be barely visible as a dark shadow against the stars, but you don’t want to risk remaining in hyperspace and overshooting your target or, worse, crashing into it. And then, you feel it: a feather-light brushing against your consciousness, a nearly inaudible chime in your ears. For a moment, it’s so faint - and familiar, as if it always belonged there - that you don’t immediately recognize it for what it is.

 _Here I am,_ whispers the Force. _Here I am,_ whispers Revan.

Your body seizes up as if of its own accord, and you grip the terminal so hard the screen cracks. You sway imperceptibly on your feet, suddenly caught in a daze. From somewhere behind you, you can barely hear your officers whispering frantically to one another.

“...requesting immediate response,” someone barks into the commlink. “I repeat, _Leviathan_ , respond immediately. Provide identification confirmation codes.”

The radio silence isn’t just ominous. It’s more like an outright threat.

You don’t realize you’re speaking until your captain asks for clarification. “Open fire,” you say, your voice even more robotic than usual. From the periphery of your vision, you can see him staring at you open-mouthed. 

_I’ll see you soon,_ Revan promises.

“Open fire!” you roar, loud enough to make your officers wince. They practically throw themselves into the task, and the whirl of the ion cannons powering up makes the bridge vibrate. But your ship is only a shuttle, laughably inferior to the _Leviathan_ 's shields and engines, not to mention far too far away. You watch with growing disbelief and horror as the energy blasts from your ion cannons shoot uselessly into the emptiness of space. The _Leviathan_ \- from what you can see of it at this distance - briefly trembles before, with a wink of light, disappears into hyperspace, taking your victory with it.

* * *

REVAN

The _Leviathan_

It is such a quiet thing, to fall. But, oh, how exhilarating to ascend again!

You are not quite there yet, of course. Almost. Almost. You can see it on the horizon, and feel it through the Force as faint and warm as a kiss on the cheek; your resurrection is under way, but first you must separate the wheat from the chaff.

It's unfortunate that the matter is far messier than you had originally planned. In fact, in just a few frantic moments, your entire operation is briefly derailed. The _Leviathan_ drags your little freighter from hyperspace, pulling it into the Interdictor's waiting maw. For a few hours, the war is essentially over, and you're not on the winning side. You feel the brief temptation to succumb to despair or panic like a lesser man, but you do not. You’re no lesser man - you're _Revan_ : Darth Revan, Supreme Commander of the Republic, famed Jedi Knight and ruthless Lord of the Sith, and you thrive best in the midst of strife. After all, you have your sharp wit and supernatural patience, and this frantic dance with intrigue and fate is what you love most.

And what an intrigue it is! You’ve been caught flat-footed more than once in the past year - first Malak’s betrayal, then the Jedi’s gamble, and Jolee accidentally finding you out - and now Karath has knocked you off-guard again, but you are nothing if not resourceful, and soon _he_ is the one bleeding out on the floor rather than you. Still, as you sweep through the _Leviathan_ 's hallways, you marvel at just how closely you're dancing with death; one more misstep, anything that might cost you a few minutes, and the war is won in one fell swoop - and not in your favor.

(As you reach the bridge, you know there is no turning back. You have chosen this path now, and you will bend anything - fate, the Force, people, entire worlds - to your design. You have to. There is no other choice.)

The bridge crewmen wisely surrender once you break down the doors. Of course they do. Fear makes them quick to obey, and they know how the Sith conduct business - the weak follow or die, and the strong lead. Thankfully, Karath’s crew is reasonably competent and intelligent, so they take your usurpation of the ship quite well. Or at least, they know without having to be told that you’ll kill the entire lot of them should Malak even get close enough to dock, much less set foot on board.

Nonetheless, you watch over the astrogation officer’s shoulder as he opens the bridge’s main console and changes the coordinates to your liking. Another officer sits in the bridge pit to your left, monitoring for approaching ships - not that he really needs to; the monitor has been emitting a high-pitched, highly irritating, and increasingly frantic series of beeps as Malak’s ship hurtles through space toward you. 

You hear Carth’s voice from somewhere behind. “Where’s Malak, is he close? And where are we going?”

“I’d tell you if he were too close,” you promise. As for the second question, well, it’s best that he not know that bit of information right now. Initially, when you’d first formed this plan, you’d done so under the assumption that you would have had much more time to meet with your loyalists before Malak’s forces could capture you, if they captured you at all. Now, thanks to Karath, the timeline is a bit expedited, and you will just have to adapt accordingly. That is fine. All your plans and preparations are not so fragile as to break under that; you and Eloi will just need to abandon subtlety a bit earlierthan you’d originally intended. But, on the other hand, you now at least have a capital ship under your command.

“He's almost here,” Bastila answers, her voice low with fear. “I can feel the Dark Lord's presence approaching.”

You know that well enough. For a moment you consider allowing him to board so you can end the war here and now, but quickly dismiss the idea. Malak’s death will mean nothing if you can’t leverage it. And, frankly, you don’t know if you can -

You don’t finish the thought. “But he’s not here _yet_. And, if our good captain is ready, Malak won’t get here at all. Not today, at least.”

The _Leviathan’s_ captain swallows nervously. He hears the threat hiding under the mask of politeness. “Preparing jump to hyperspace. In three, two, one...”

Your Force bond with Malak is such a lifeless, empty thing now. It’s no wonder he thought you dead for nearly a year. Nonetheless, you reach out, hoping proximity will make up for your bond’s lack of strength; your consciousness brushes against him, or at least the very edge of him, for a brief moment. It’s - it’s stiff and numb but too shocked to block you out and you take the opportunity to hazily transmit that you’d kiss him goodbye if you only could - are you being sincere, or just taunting him? - before the _Leviathan_ drops out of realspace, severing your connection like a blade through thread. You don’t get much back, of course. Just echoes of surprise and the beginning of fury, bright and painful and stinging, as Malak realizes he’s just missed you.

 _I’ll see you soon_ , you promise, addressing the dark nothingness where Malak ought to have been. Soon you will put this dead thing to rest.


End file.
